WE  DISCOVER 

THE  OLD 

DOMINION 


LOUISE  CLOSSER 
HALE 

DRAWINGS  BY 
WALTER  HALE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


We  Discover  the  Old  Dominion 


IN  THE  CAPITOL  GROUNDS,  RICHMOND 


We   Discover 


Old  Dominion 


By  Louise  Closser  Hale 

Drawings    by  Walter    Hale 


New   Yo rk:    Dodd,    Mead 
&  Company,  Publishers,  1916 


COFTBIOHT,  1916,  BY 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


FZ3I 


Contents 


I    IN  WHICH  I  OUGHT  TO  TALK  ABOUT  THE  OLD 

DOMINION—  AND  DON'T       ......         1 

II    IN  WHICH  WE  START  IN  THE  RIGHT  DIRECTION, 

BUT  EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON  DELAY  US        9 

III  STARTING  WITH  TOBY  BUT  ENDING  WITH  BAT- 

TLEFIELDS ..........       27 

IV  I  SING  OF  ARMS—  THEN  MARYLAND,  MY  MARY- 

LAND AND  THE  OLD  DOMINION  AT  LAST       .       54 

V  IN  WHICH  A  FINE  OLD  STORY  IS  EXPLODED 
BUT  WE  OFFER  AS  GOOD  A  ONE  BY  A  DEAR 
OLD  LADY  ..........  78 

VI  TOO  MUCH  OF  ME  IN  THIS,  BUT  THE  TRUTH 
ABOUT  OUR  TOLL-GATE  PICTURE.  HISTORY 
TO  BURN  AND—  VIRGINIA  ......  98 

VII  OFFICER  NOONAN  ALL  OVER  THESE  PAGES, 
AN  UMBRELLA,  THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY, 
WICKED  GYPSIES,  AND  A  SHAMPOO  .  .  .118 

VIII  AND  HERE  WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS, 
THEN  FOLD  OUR  TENTS  AND  STEAL  INTO 
MUDDY,  MOUNTAINOUS  ADVENTURING  .  .  147 

IX  ALL  ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE,  WITH  SOME 
ORDINARY  TEARS,  THEORIES,  AND  A  WRECK, 
IF  YOU  PLEASE  ......  .  .  170 

X  AND  NOW  A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS,  MEET- 
ING CHARMING  BOYS  AND  UPSETTING  TWO 
LADIES,  WHICH  IS  NOT  AS  BAD  AS  IT  SOUNDS  203 


CONTENTS 

PlQB 

XI  SOMETHING  BETTER  THAN  MY  FATHER'S  COUSIN 
LAURA'S  STEREOPTICONS,  AFTER  THAT  A  BAD 
ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS— BUT  READ 
ALONG  221 

XII  CONTAINING  A  CHURCH,  A  DISMAL  SWAMP,  AND 
THE  SMELL  OF  THE  LOW  TIDE  WHICH  ROLLED 
IN  RELATIONS.  ALSO  GERMANS!  .  .  .  .249 

XIII  THE  FEMALE  NUMBER!     WE  LEAVE  "  SWEETIE  " 

BUT  ACQUIRE  WILLIAMSBURG  AND  A  NUMBER 
OF  DATES.  ALSO  THE  STORY  OF  TIMOROUS 
MARY  CARY 280 

XIV  JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO!    A  LITTLE 

QUARREL  WITH  THE  ILLUSTRATOR  AND  OUR 
BEST  HOMAGE  TO  A  FRENCH  SOLDIER  .  .  302 

XV  LISTEN  TO  THIS:  A  DAY'S  PERFECT  MOTORING, 
BUT  THE  DAY  AFTER  THAT— OH,  MY  WORD, 
WHAT  A  ROAD!  WASHINGTON  FOR  THE 
JOURNEY'S  END  AND  THE  GREAT  DISCOVERY  326 

XVI  THIS  IS  THE  END  I  PROMISE  YOU.  IF  YOU  ARE 
SORRY  I  AM  GLAD,  IF  YOU  ARE  GLAD  I  AM 
SORRY— BUT  I  CAN'T  BLAME  YOU  352 


Illustrations 


IN  THE  CAPITOL  GROUNDS,  RICHMOND     .       .     Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

THE  COURT  HOUSE  AT  SOMERVILLE,  NEW  JERSEY     .  6 

ON  THE  RARITAN  AT  CLINTON 22 

THE   OLD  VALLEY  INN  ON  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY, 

NEAR  YORK,  PENNSYLVANIA    ......  34 

CULP'S  HILL,  GETTYSBURG  BATTLEFIELD        ...  46 

ACROSS     MASON     AND     DIXON'S     LINE— CLAIRVAUX, 

NEAR  EMMITSBURG,  MARYLAND     .        .       .       .        .  58 

THE  OLD  MILL  ON  CARROLL  CREEK,  FREDERICK       .  72 

THE  TOLL  HOUSE  ON  SOUTH  MOUNTAIN,  MARYLAND  86 

BURNSIDE'S  BRIDGE,  ANTIETAM 102 

THE  POTOMAC  AT  HARPER'S  FERRY 114 

A  RELIC  OF  ANTE-BELLUM  DAYS— THE  TAYLOR  HOTEL 

AT  WINCHESTER,  VIRGINIA 128 

THE  IVY-CLAD  TOWER  OF  TRINITY  CHURCH,  STAUN- 

TON 142 

THE    HOTEL    AT    HOT    SPRINGS— WIDE-WINGED    AND 

WARM  IN  COLOUR 158 

THE    GIANT    HOSTELRY   AT    WHITE    SULPHUR,    DELI- 
CATELY SHADED  IN  A  WOOD 174 

THE   NATURAL   BRIDGE 186 

GRANT'S  HEADQUARTERS   (PRINCE  EDWARD  HOTEL), 

FARMVILLE  198 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
FAGB 

THE     ROAD     TO     THE     EAST     THROUGH     NOTTOWAY 

COUNTY,  VIRGINIA 212 

THE  EDGE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP 226 

SEA  RAIDERS  INTERNED— THE  "  PRINZ  EITEL  FRIED- 
RICH"  AND  "KRONPRINZ  WILHELM"  AT  PORTS- 
MOUTH    /  4  .  .240 

OLD  ST.  PAUL'S,  NORFOLK 264 

WASHINGTON'S  HEADQUARTERS— THE  WYTHE  HOUSE 

ON  PALACE  GREEN,  WILLIAMSBURG   .       .       .       .270 

THE  RUINED  TOWER  AT  JAMESTOWN 286 

BRUTON    CHURCH,    DUKE    OF    GLOUCESTER    STREET, 

WILLIAMSBURG 208 

LEE'S  HEADQUARTERS— SPOTTSYLVANIA  COURT  HOUSE  312 
THE  DESERTED  MILL  ON  OCCOQUAN  CREEK,  VIRGINIA  322 
THE  WHITE  HOUSE  FROM  THE  LAWN,  WASHINGTON  .  336 

MONUMENT  STREET,  BALTIMORE 354 

THE  TOWER  OF  HOLDER  HALL,  PRINCETON     .       .       .366 

MAP  OF  THE  ROUTE  1 


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WE   DISCOVER 
THE   OLD   DOMINION 

CHAPTER  I 

In  Which  I  Ought  to  Talk  About  the  Old 
Dominion — and  Don't 

WILL  you  adventure?  Will  you  take  a  chance? 
Will  you  fare  forth  and  all  that  sort  of  thing? 
It  was  April  and  became  May — that  is  the  time 
for  moving.  Something  makes  you  want  to  move 
— to  root  up  your  household  things  and  be  uncom- 
fortable. I  wish  we  could  all  move  in  motors, 
but  if  we  can't  there  are  always  the  wagons,  tired 
women  on  the  front  seats  with  the  glass  lamp  in 
the  lap — rocking  chairs  falling  off  the  rear.  But 
getting  somewhere,  getting  something  new,  some- 
thing different. 

I  shan't  be  arbitrary.  I  don't  insist  upon  your 
moving.  A  woman  said  to  me  down  South — it 
was  down  South  we  went — that  there  is  no  pleas- 
ure to  her  in  a  tree  putting  out  its  leaves  in  a 
city.  But  I  say  a  tree  is  a  tree,  and  goes  through 

-*-!-*- 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

the  same  lovely  processes  in  a  virgin  forest  or  a 
backyard.  Ergo,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  to  the 
Old  Dominion  yourself,  look  out  upon  your  back- 
yard, and  when  you've  nothing  better  to  do  read 
this  book — but  I  beg  of  you  don't  buy  it,  get  it  at 
the  library.  I  am  so  afraid  you  won't  like  it,  and 
will  wish  you  hadn't  spent  the  money. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  repeat? "  This  was 
from  W .  I  introduce  him  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. My  mother  once  said  when  I  took  her  on 
her  first  expensive  taxi  ride  which  was  planned  to 
please :  "  We'll  do  it  and  have  it  over  with." 

He  has  got  to  be  in  it,  but  I  shall  have  to  treat 
him  with  more  respect.  It  is  his  claim  that  I  have 
not  been  sufficiently  formal  in  writing  of  him, 
and  he  has  been  upheld  by  this  in  a  number  of  let- 
ters that  have  come  to  me  relative  to  earlier  "  dis- 
coveries." The  letters  were  charming  in  every 
other  way,  but  reproachful  in  their  tone  as  to  my 
treatment  of  a  husband.  And,  while  I  believe  he 
wrote  them  himself,  since  he  feels  so  keenly  about 
it  I  shall  endeavour  to  handle  him  with  care.  I 
shall  even  call  him  the  Illustrator  now  and  then  so 
that  you  won't  think  he  was  the  chauffeur.  Our 
chauffeur  on  this  trip,  well — later 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  repeat?  "  he  said.  And 
yet  he  did  not  say  it — he  wrote  it.  I  was  away — 
I  was  away  for  several  weeks  last  season.  And  I 

-4-2-1- 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

am  wondering  now  if  I  should  not  tell  you  why 
I  left  my  roof -tree — and  the  roof -tree  of  twenty- 
seven  other  families.  Since1  I  so  clearly  reveal 
the  Illustrator  to  you  should  I  not  tell  The  Truth 
about  myself?  I  don't  mind  your  knowing,  but  I 
am  afraid  you  will  cry:  "Mercy!  if  she  has 
some  other  profession  than  writing  she  can't  be 
much — "  and  will  not  even  get  me  from  the 
library.  No,  I  shall  not  say  yet  why  I  was  written 

to  by  W except  that  it  had  nothing  to  do 

with  the  residence  for  divorce.  (I  really  don't  see 
why  women  get  divorces.  It  is  so  character  build- 
ing to  show  just  how  long  one  can  stick  it  out.) 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  repeat?  "  It  seems  im- 
possible to  get  any  further  than  this  phrase.  It 
howls  in  and  out  of  my  ears  like  a  cave  of  the 
winds.  He  was  hoping  very  much  that  I  would  say 
I  was  sure  I  wouldn't  repeat  anything  I  had  re- 
ferred to  in  our  last  book  of  travels.  And  while  I 
have  no  doubt  but  that  I  will  repeat  I  said  of  course 
not — by  wire. 

We  both  wanted  to  go  to  the  Old  Dominion,  but 
for  different  reasons.  As  I  have  admitted,  the  an- 
nual desire  to  move  was  coming  on  and  as  our 
apartment  is  quite  comfortable  it  seemed  better  to 
transfer  my  activities  to  another  sphere  of  useful- 
ness. As  for  W he  wanted  to  go  as  he  had 

heard  that  there  were  some  adventuresome  roads 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

down  there  (adventuresome  is  polite  for  bad)  and 
this  would  give  him  a  chance  to  get  a  new  car. 

As  soon  as  he  received  my  telegram  he  began 
looking  about  for  an  automobile.  It  is  much  pleas- 
anter  to  look  about  for  a  new  car  than,  for  instance, 
a  new  pair  of  shoes.  In  the  case  of  shoes  you  go 
into  a  shop,  sit  an  indefinite  time  meekly  asking 
passing  clerks  (who  continue  passing)  if  they  are 
busy,  and  when  you  are  waited  on  get  no  enjoy- 
ment out  of  your  prospective  purchase  beyond  tell- 
ing the  man  that  "  it  pinches  right  there."  At 
length  when  you  find  a  couple  seemingly  mates 
(that  is,  one  foot  not  hurting  more  than  the  other) 
the  clerk  plants  a  mirror  in  your  way  and  says 
"  This  is  what  we  are  selling."  And  you  catch  a 
glimpse  of  two  mastodons  at  the  lower  end  of  your 
stockings  and  you  wearily  pay  a  sum  for  the  humili- 
ating disclosure,  saying  aloud  to  yourself  all  the 
way  home :  "  I  prefer  comfort  to  beauty." 

But  when  you  look  for  motors,  beautiful  sleek 
creatures  are  driven  to  your  house  and  a  charming 
young  man  possessed  of  enormous  enthusiasm, 
takes  you  out  just  for  the  pleasure  of  being  with 
you.  The  Illustrator  confused  me  in  his  endless 
driving  about,  for  motoring  was  not  new  to  him, 
and  there  were  a  number  of  automobiles  he  went 
out  in  that  I  was  sure  he  had  no  thought  of  buying. 
It  reminded  me  vaguely  of  the  mourner  in  the 

~t-  4  -e- 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

funeral  procession  who  didn't  know  the  corpse  but 
only  went  for  the  ride.  I  did  not  get  at  his  real  rea- 
son until  he  innocently  revealed  it  in  one  of  his  daily 
letters  (yes,  daily)  when  he  concluded,  just  before 
love  and  kisses:  "  Time  for  a  car  to  come — Toby 
feels  it  and  is  getting  eager.  " 

And  then  I  knew,  knew  that  it  was  all  to  give 
Toby  a  pleasant  little  airing.  It  grows  very  dull 
for  Toby  when  I  go  off  on  these  trips  of  mine.  I 
am  the  only  one  in  the  family  who  will  cheerfully 
and  with  enthusiasm  abandon  all  literary  efforts  or 
any  occupation  calculated  to  improve  my  mind,  to 
go  out  in  the  park  with  him.  He  has  a  terrible  way 
of  watching  me  from  the  moment  I  get  up  in  the 
morning  until  he  has  this  trip.  He  is  full  of  hope 
in  the  morning,  although  when  night  comes  and  he 
sees  our  evening  clothes  go  on  he  knows  there  is  no 
use  flattening  his  ears  or  ingratiatingly  beating  his 
tail.  He  cannot  even  bring  himself  to  go  to  the 
door.  It  is  too  much  suffering. 

He  watches  me  most  keenly  about  noon,  and 
since  he  has  been  with  us  for  some  months  I  under- 
stand a  good  deal  that  he  says.  At  noon  it's  park 
or  downtown  for  me — anybody  can  tell  by  the 
shoes.  "  My  goodness,  "  says  Toby,  "  she's  puttin' 
on  her  downtown  shoes.  My  goodness,  ain't  she 
goin'  out  in  the  park?  Now  I  gotta  go  and  stare  at 
Walter. " 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

You  notice  he  says  Walter.  We  hardly  knew 
what  to  let  him  call  us.  It  would  be  wrong  to 
give  him  the  impression  that  we  are  his  father  and 
mother,  for  sooner  or  later  some  of  his  companions 
would  tell  him  that  we  are  not  his  real  parents  and 
that  would  hurt  his  feelings.  On  the  other  hand 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hale  would  be  too  conventional.  So 
as  we  call  him  by  his  first  name  we  thought  it  only 
fair  that  he  should  call  us  by  ours. 

It  was  Toby,  I  imagine,  who  cast  the  deciding 
vote  for  the  type  of  roadster  which  took  us  to — and 
away  from — the  Old  Dominion.  He  was  very  poli- 
tic on  all  of  his  rides.  He  had  caught  the  lingo 
from  others  out  on  free  automobile  trips  and  would 
remark  upon  hopping  into  the  car  "  How  smoothly 
it  runs, "  or  "  It  takes  the  hill  well "  or  "  I'd  like 
Louise  to  see  this.  "  So  it  was  nothing  that  he  said, 
but  just  the  way  he  sat  up  in  the  little  curved  seat 
at  the  back  with  W and  the  good  looking  dem- 
onstrator in  front  that  clinched  the  bargain.  And 
more  than  this  as  the  Illustrator  sincerely  wrote 
me:  "  There  will  be  room  for  you  as  well  as  Toby.  " 

I  had  to  be  convinced  of  it.  In  the  distant  city 
I  took  a  woman  friend  with  me  to  an  agency  that 
we  might  rehearse  sitting  in  this  circular  seat.  She 
was  very  touched  at  being  singled  out  for  this  hon- 
our, and  I  did  not  tell  her  I  had  chosen  the  widest 
friend  I  knew.  The  agent  in  the  show  room  would 


THE  COURT  HOUbE  AT  SOMERYILLE,  XEW  JERSEY 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

no  doubt  have  preferred  Toby,  for  my  friend,  in 
her  zeal,  entered  the  car  with  her  umbrella  carried 
horizontally  across  her  arms.  After  this  we  could 
not  greatly  enjoy  ourselves  as  we  sat  in  the  show 
window  (although  quite  a  number  outside  the  show 
window  enjoyed  us)  for  the  concentrated  gaze  of 
the  salesman  upon  the  umbrella  lacerated  panels 
robbed  the  scene  of  its  festivity. 

"  Do  you  know,  "  I  said  to  her  that  night,  "there 
are  twenty-seven  coats  of  paint  laid  on  a  car  to 
make  it  that  lovely? " 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  she  sighed,  "  and  I  can  only  get  on 
one  " — which  incident  almost  reveals  The  Truth 
about  me. 

When  I  came  home — [that  throbbing  getting 
back  to  New  York.  "  Same  address  for  the 
trunks, "  asks  the  property  man.  "  Same  ad- 
dress, "  we  reply] — the  car  had  been  ordered  and 

on  the  big  table  in  W 's  workroom  lay  the  white 

rattly  paper  covered  with  lines  that  mean  days  of 
joy,  broken  by  circles  that  offer  nights  of  ease. 
Roads  and  towns,  good  and  bad,  all  a  gamble.  Sun- 
shine and  rain  ahead  of  us  like  the  Spring  itself, 
with  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  found  out — only  I 
didn't  know  it  then. 

I  said  something  like  this,  making  it  as  unimagi- 
native as  possible  so  as  not  to  embarrass  the  Illus- 
trator who  is  ever  fearful  that  I  may  burst  into 


ABOUT  THE  OLD  DOMINION— AND 

tears  when  having  a  good  time.  Even  so  he  de- 
tected a  tremor  in  my  voice  and  assumed  the  su- 
perior tone  that  immediately  robs  me  of  all  emotion. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  can  define  the  Old  Dominion,  " 
he  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  I  returned,  covering  my  igno- 
rance by  a  flippant  air.  "  It  is  a  steamship  line." 

I  doubt  if  he  knew  himself,  but  he  looked  so  wise 
that  I  grew  very  uneasy  about  this  place  we  were 
going  to  and  decided  to  consult  my  beloved  public 
library. 

"  Gracious,"  said  Toby,  following  me  to  my 
room.  "  Not  home  five  minutes  and  puttin'  on  her 
downtown  shoes. " 


H-8-J- 


CHAPTER  II 

In  Which  We  Start  in  the  Right  Direction, 
but  Easter  Flowers  at  Boston  Delay  Us 

I  DID  not  find  out  what  states  comprised  the  Old 
Dominion.  In  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  it  was 
called  Virginia,  but  that  meant  a  great  tract  of  un- 
explored country  of  a  new  world  claimed  by  her 
because  no  one  was  in  possession  of  it  except  the 
Indians — who  didn't  count.  However,  as  time 
went  on  it  was,  to  us,  not  the  amount  of  territory 
which  made  the  Old  Dominion  a  definite  locality 
but  the  men  and  women  who  peopled  it.  When  it 
became  noised  about  that  we  were  going  South 
these  districts  resolved  themselves  into  cordial 
provinces  without  state  lines,  full  of  the  friends  of 
friends  whom  we  must  be  sure  to  hunt  up  and  who 
would  "  show  us  a  good  time.  "  But  I  do  not  think 
that  the  Southerners  would  stop  at  "  showing  "  a 
good  time. 

This  vicarious  hospitality  was  interesting,  for  no 
one  had  urged  us  to  surprise  their  friends  when  we 
went  into  New  England,  although  some  had  sug- 
gested writing  ahead  to  their  Yankee  acquaintances 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

with  the  idea  of  notifying  them  of  our  approaching 
raid,  presumably  that  they  might  get  away  in  good 
time.  So  this  glad  sureness  that  strangers  would 
be  welcomed  at  any  moment  by  those  living  in  the 
Old  Dominion  was,  after  all,  the  best  definition  of 
what  comprised  Queen  Elizabeth's  Virginia.  And 
in  my  dictionary,  which,  like  Samuel  Johnson's,  will 
be  largely  swayed  by  prejudice,  I  shall  say:  "  The 
Old  Dominion — a  locality  where  a  stranger,  drop- 
ping in  at  meal  hours,  can  eat  his  head  off  without 
occasioning  surprise  or  resentment.  " 

The  Illustrator  was  anxious  to  get  away  after  we 
had  made  this  deduction,  not  that  we  would  visit 
any  one,  for  we  couldn't  visit  and  write  of  people, 
but  it  was  pleasant  feeling  that  we  would  be 
wanted,  and  he  urged  me  to  overcome  the  natural 
instinct  to  create  clothes  in  the  Spring  and  con- 
centrate on  history.  I  grew  very  frightened  when 
I  heard  of  the  necessity  of  dates  again.  I  had  made 
a  great  many  mistakes  in  my  last  book  and  my  pub- 
lishers had  politely  hoped  I  would  be  a  little  more 
authentic. 

I  went  gloomily  down  to  a  book  store  and  told 
my  troubles  to  an  intelligent  young  man,  who  has 
all  the  histories  of  the  world  tamed,  and  he  said  he 
would  send  me  up  a  very  nice  little  volume  called 
A  Short  History  of  the  United  States  which  I 
could  slip  into  a  pocket.  I  don't  know  what  kind 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

of  a  pocket  he  thinks  I  have.  That  evening  my 
maid  came  staggering  in  with  a  huge  package  and 
I  thought  I  had  been  given  Washington  Irving  in 
calf.  But  it  was  only  the  Short  History  of  the 
United  States  for  my  pocket. 

Even  so  we  managed  to  carry  it  in  a  khaki  laun- 
dry bag  together  with  a  mass  of  reading  matter  sent 
me  by  my  aunt.  My  aunt  is  an  F.  F.  V.  and  there- 
fore is  not  really  my  aunt  but  the  kind  that  is  a 
mother's  bridesmaid.  She  had  said,  in  answer  to 
my  expostulations,  that  I  really  couldn't  escape  a 
little  history  but  she  would  try  to  limit  her  offerings 
to  leaflets.  As  a  consequence  the  S.  H.  of  the  U.  S. 
was  squashed  down  firmly  on  the  "  Radio-activity 
of  Hot  Springs,  "  "  Some  Presidents  I  Know,"  and 
"How  Washington  Makes  Us  Think  of  the 
Church."  He  did  not  make  me  think  of  the  church 
even  after  reading  it. 

There  was  another  book  I  should  have  liked  to 
have  taken,  found  in  a  long  forgotten  corner  when  I 
was  looking  for  Toby's  rubber  ball.  It  was  Elsie 
Dinsmore — just  one  of  the  series — the  others  must 
have  gone  to  the  little  nieces  who  were  loving  Elsie 
as  I  loved  her.  With  the  elasticity  of  the  Old  Do- 
minion I  was,  also,  going  into  Elsie  Dinsmore's 
country,  going  to  that  region  of  broad  avenues  and 
darkies  singing  happily  and  the  gleaming  "  great 
house."  I  was  going  to  experience  at  last  what  was 

-Ml-*- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

as  common  to  Elsie  as  verses  in  the  Bible.  Some- 
thing of  resentment  came  to  me  that  I  have  had  to 
wait  so  long  for  what  Elsie  knew  at  birth,  and  I 
resolved  that  I  should  find  on  my  trip  a  great  house, 
an  avenue,  a  flower  garden,  yes,  even  a  black 
mammy  better  than  had  ever  come  into  Elsie's  ex- 
emplary life.  With  this  mighty  incentive  I  packed 
the  baggage. 

We  got  away  earlier  than  I  had  thought  possible 

but  a  day  later  than  W wished.  I  could  not 

imagine  why  he  was  so  keen  about  starting  on  the 
nineteenth  of  April  until  I  remembered  that  Paul 
Revere  had  taken  a  little  trip  himself  over  a  cen- 
tury ago,  and  though  the  resemblance  would  cease 

there  W was  anxious  to  ride  "  through  every 

Middlesex  village  and  farm  "  on  the  identical  date. 

With  this  effort  in  view — rather,  behind  us — we 

started  on  the  twentieth,  W with  an  ulcerated 

tooth,  I  with  my  glasses  broken,  the  new  chauffeur 
with  a  new  cap  which  blew  off,  and  Toby  with  the 
shivers  because  he  was  washed  for  the  occasion. 
Otherwise  we  were  all  right.  We  slipped  through 
the  park,  going  rapidly  when  there  were  no  officers 
and  slowly  as  though  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  our 
mouths  when  we  espied  a  bay  horse.  Toby  un- 
muzzled and  leashless  hung  out  and  leered  at  them. 
The  day  was  pulsing  with  promises  of  blossom, 
equally  pulsing  was  the  Illustrator's  tooth. 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

I  started  poetically.  "  The  hyacinths  are  out!  " 
I  cried. 

"  Unghuh,  "  replied  the  distracted  man,  glaring 
at  the  Zoo.  "  So  are  the  buffalo.  " 

At  Fifty-eighth  Street  we  meachingly  passed  the 
stern  cop  who  scolds  us  so  often.  At  Fifty-seventh 
I  sighed  for  the  fine  chap  who  looks  like  Augustus 
Thomas,  and  who  is  there  no  longer.  Where  could 
he  have  gone — do  policemen  die !  At  Forty-second 
Street  was  the  one  who  used  to  laugh  so  much  be- 
fore he  was  transferred  from  Broadway  to  this 
dread  corner.  He  is  controlled  now  and  on  his  job 
every  minute.  A  woman  of  the  social  world  who  is 
as  good  as  she  is  beautiful  passed  with  her  red  Chow 
dog  on  the  front  seat.  The  officers  all  saluted  her. 
She  is  so  kind  to  people  and  to  dumb  things — so 
awake  to  the  pain  of  the  world.  A  little  wave  of 
regret  lapped  at  my  heart  that  we  were  leaving 
these  familiar  scenes,  but  we  went  on  through  mean 
streets  toward  the  Weehawken  ferry.  Mean 
streets!  Poor  old  New  York,  I  can  say  what  I 
please  of  it  and  no  one  will  write  me  a  letter  in  its 
defense. 

When  the  ferry  backed  away  from  the  city  as 
though  leaving  royalty  I  was  glad  I  was  going.  A 
strip  of  water  is  an  absolute  severing  of  ties.  I 
was  ready,  after  all,  to  go  at  loose  ends  for  a  space. 
Two  years  ago  when  we  motored  up  the  Hudson 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

for  an  extended  trip  the  war  was  upon  us,  yet  we 
could  not  believe  but  that  it  was  for  the  moment. 
It  was  grim  but  passing,  we  felt.  I  do  not  know 
how  near  it  will  be  to  the  end  when  this  bad  scrib- 
bling is  set  up  nicely  in  print,  but  on  the  twentieth 
of  April  I  could  hear  the  hoarse  voices  of  the  big 
fellows  who  sell  the  five  cent  extras,  and  I  was  glad 
that  for  a  while  I  should  be  separated  from  news 
hot  from  the  cable. 

More  than  that  I  was  not  ashamed  to  be  glad.  I 
have  found  out  much  since  this  war  began.  I  have 
found  that  to  preserve  the  balance  of  life  happiness 
must  be  somewhere.  It  is  as  vital  to  the  world  as 
sympathy  and  generous  giving.  Generous  giving? 
This,  too,  had  confused  me.  How  had  I  a  right  to 
anything  when  a  man  died  for  lack  of  bandages? 
How  could  any  of  us  buy  the  lovely  things  within 
the  shops.  I  spoke  of  this  to  my  French  milliner — 
'  a  little  French  milliner."  I  said  I  could  not  buy 
her  hats  that  year. 

"  Bien,  madame,"  she  replied,  "  but  what  will  I 
do?  My  bills  come  in  from  the  wholesale  houses — 
I  must  pay  them.  My  models  come  from  France- 
it  needs  the  money — I  must  pay  them  quickly. 
Eight  of  my  people  are  fighting  in  France, 
and  I  must  send  your  money  for  my  hats  to 
them." 

I  was  delighted  when  she  said  this  and  I  bought 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

a  very  pretty  hat.  But  we  agreed  that  all  of  us 
must  do  with  a  little  less  and  give  the  difference 
away.  So  I  have  a  small  purse  and  when  I  want 
to  go  on  the  bus  I  take  the  subway  and,  saving  five 
cents,  put  it  in  the  purse  for  the  wounded.  Again, 
half  the  time  when  I  want  an  ice  cream  soda  I  get  a 
drink  of  water  which  is  quite  as  satisfactory,  put- 
ting ten  cents  in  the  purse  "  pour  les  blesses."  But 
half  the  time  I  have  the  "  chocolate-ice-cream- 
please  "  for  what  would  the  soda  water  man  do,  who 
is  always  a  nice  fellow  in  a  white  coat,  if  we  all  left 
him? 

"  This,"  said  W breaking  in  upon  my 

thoughts  after  we  had  quitted  the  ferry  house,  "  is 
Jersey  Heights." 

I  groped  back  in  my  mind  and  advanced  the  be- 
lief that  the  Jersey  Heights  were  noted  for  some- 
thing. The  chauffeur  said,  quite  simply,  that  he 

had  been  born  there,  and  W strove  for  fame 

by  confessing  that  he  used  to  ascend  them  in  our 
car  of  twelve  years  ago,  going  up  backwards  for 
power.  However,  that  was  not  the  event  of  histori- 
cal interest  which  lurks  in  my  mind,  but  it  does  not 
lurk  at  all  in  the  S.  H.  of  the  U.  S.  I  even  gave 
the  search  a  trial  at  the  library,  failing  miserably 
for  I  can  never  take  down  a  J-K-L  volume  with- 
out going  on  to  read  of  my  dear  Lincoln,  so  I  really 
won't  know  what  happened  on  Jersey  Heights 

.-*- 15  -*- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

(if  it  was  Jersey  Heights)  till  my  publishers  tell 
me. 

We  went  on  and  on  through  Jersey,  getting  it- 
self ready  for  Spring.  The  fountains  of  the  park 
were  being  cleaned  and  in  one  a  collection  of  stone 
frogs  stuck  up  on  iron  rods  sent  a  thrill  of  satisfac- 
tion through  me.  To  my  mind  the  only  good  frog 
is  a  stone  frog.  I  remember  a  night  spent  in  the 
country  ("  Come  out,  dear,  and  have  a  fine  sleep," 
they  telephoned  me)  when  the  bull  frogs  in  the  lake 
were  plying  their  suit  at  the  top  of  their  croaks.  I 
remember  how  my  affection  for  those  kind  people 
who  had  invited  me  out  turned  to  violent  hatred  of 
them  before  the  morn,  and  how  I  took  the  early 
train  back  to  noisy  New  York  and  sank  into  sleep 
lulled  by  the  hucksters  cry  and  the  sound  of  the 
hurdy-gurdy.  But  to  be  fair  to  the  bull  frogs  I 
don't  suppose  they  care  for  our  love  music  either. 
They  would  probably  be  bored  to  death  at  La  Bo- 
heme — even  if  the  management  gave  them  a  box. 

We  went  by  way  of  Newark  and  out  of  it  by 
Clinton  Avenue  which  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys  would 
probably  put  down  as  "  the  finest  avenue  that  ever 
I  did  see."  It  is  largely  given  over  now  to  cavorting 
jitneys.  They  were  so  varied  in  their  destinations 
that  I  am  sure  one  could  go  to  any  point  if  they 
would  only  start  at  Newark.  Not  that  I  am  against 
the  jitneys.  I  believe  in  those  of  modest  means  hav- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

ing  a  chance  to  use  the  most  beautiful  paths.  Noth- 
ing rouses  me  to  greater  ire  when  I  am  in  London 
than  being  refused  admittance  to  the  Hyde  Park 
Drive  because  I  do  not  possess  a  private  vehicle.  It 
is  no  treat  to  a  rich  man  to  enjoy  the  green  things, 
and  think  how  cute  the  little  donkey  shays  would 
look  backing  into  all  the  coroneted  carriages. 

There  is  one  objection  to  the  jitneys  in  this  local- 
ity :  you  have  no  excuse  for  not  visiting  your  friends 
no  matter  how  remote  their  suburb.  "  Don't  you 
care  a  nickel's  worth  for  me?"  they  ask  over  the 
'phone.  And  being  untruthful  you  have  to  say  that 
you  do.  Ah!  if  you  had  only  replied  as  did  Elsie 
Dinsmore  when  she  gave  up  the  fair:  "I  would 
rather  stay  at  home  than  be  deceitful." 

We  met  a  moving  wagon  fulfilling  the  glad  mis- 
sion which  I  write  of  so  airily  and  refuse  to  enter- 
tain. A  sour  looking  woman  with  a  baby  was  sit- 
ting up  in  front,  and  on  the  wagon  was  a  sign  which 
read  "  Joy  Rides  at  All  Hours."  She  looked  at  me 
bitterly  and  I  knew  I  was  having  the  best  of  it  and 
felt  guilty.  I  longed  to  lean  out  and  comfort  her 
with  an  excerpt  from  Emerson!  "  Change  is  the 
mask  that  all  continuance  wears  to  keep  us  children 
harmlessly  amused."  But  I  knew  if  I  did  she  would 
throw  the  baby  at  me. 

If  Elizabeth  had  a  better  looking  front  to  her 
hotel  we  would  have  stopped  there  for  lunch.  I 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

know  I  could  not  run  a  hotel  successfully,  but  I 
could  deceive  enough  people  each  day  to  keep  from 
liquidation  by  fresh  curtains,  clean  windows,  and  a 
few  plants.  This  is  much  cheaper  than  the  best 
meat  and  active  indigestion  would  not  set  in  until 
the  guests  were  well  off  the  premises.  But  the 
Elizabeth  hotel  keeper  did  not  make  this  dishonest 
effort  to  attract.  Therefore  we  went  on,  picking 
out  nice  bits  of  architecture  as  probable  inns  and 
finding  them  to  be  engine  houses.  One  was  in  mis- 
sion style  with  a  belfry,  and  a  very  good  style,  I 
should  say,  for  if  anything  has  a  mission  in  life  it  is 
the  fire  department. 

There  was  something  about  the  stucco  and  the 
red  clay  of  the  vicinity  which  brought  California  to 
me,  and  with  it  a  memory  of  a  fire  engine  house  of 
a  very  small  California  town  where  the  exigencies 
of  my  profession  (the  secret)  once  took  me. 

I  recall  waking  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  by 
loud  denunciations  on  the  part  of  a  fireman  who,  it 
seems,  had  kept  on  sleeping  when  the  call  to  arms 
summoned  the  others  and  had  missed  the  excite- 
ment. He  was  very  indignant  and  said  "  he  was  in 
it  as  much  as  anybody  and  they  had  a  right  to  call 
him."  The  fire  chief  replied  in  language  which 
could  have  caused  spontaneous  combustion  that 
they  had  something  better  than  wait  for  a  fireman 
to  attend  a  fire— that  they  had  their  DUTY. 

-a-18-f- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

"  But  you  might  o'  waited,"  the  aggrieved 
one  argued,  "  the  fire  was  out  when  you  got 
there." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  chief  sternly,  "  but  that  wasn't 
our  fault." 

This  should  be  the  end  to  the  story,  but  I  am  one 
of  those  who  always  want  to  know  what  happens 
after  the  end.  And  in  case  some  of  you  enjoy  this 
unfortunate  curiosity  also  I  will  say  that  the  chief 
concluded  his  speech  with  a  stinging  blow  on  the 
cheek  of  the  late  sleeper.  I  had  heard  a  good  deal 
of  the  honour  of  the  West,  quick  on  the  trigger  and 
so  forth,  and  I  shut  my  eyes.  But  nothing  hap- 
pened. The  struckee  put  his  hand  to  his  cheek  and 
said  politely,  "  Don't  do  anything  you'll  regret, 
Jake."  After  which  they  both  took  a  chew  off  the 
same  tobacco. 

This  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  Old  Dominion,  I 
admit  it  [having  been  asked  by  the  Illustrator  if  I 
could  not  confine  myself  within  a  thousand  mile 
radius]  and  we  will  now  go  back  to  Plainfield. 
There  we  had  luncheon.  I  don't  remember  what  it 
was — excellent  beef  stew,  I  think,  seasoned  by  wails 
from  Toby,  who  for  the  first  time  in  his  recollection 
was  led  away  from  us  and  staked  down  in  a  very 
pleasant  back  yard.  Poor  little  chap!  What  ter- 
ror there  must  be  in  a  dog's  heart  when  his  people 
leave  him.  We  know,  a  child  knows,  that  we  are  to 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

meet  again,  but  a  dog  knows  nothing  except  that  he 
has  been  abandoned. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  says  W at  this  point, 

peeping  in  upon  my  typist  and  me,  "  that  you  are 
admitting  at  last  that  Toby  is  a  dog."  Good  heav- 
ens !  Don't  you  feel  he  is  a  West  Highlander  with 
wiry  white  hair,  two  black  eyes  and  a  black  snout  in 
a  white  face  like  a  three  of  spades  gone  wrong? 

I  went  out  and  fed  him  the  dinner  he  would  not 
touch  while  we  were  away,  and  I  knew  I  was  bind- 
ing myself  to  certain  slavery  when  I  did  it.  I  knew 
it  was  the  New  Dominion  settling  down  upon 
me.  One  could  have  a  master  more  base  than  a 
dog. 

The  Greek  bell  boy,  whom  we  addressed  in  Ital- 
ian to  his  distress,  said  the  road  was  cut  up  by  mo- 
tor trucks  from  a  nearby  factory.  We  always  find 
that  a  hotel  is  right  when  they  admit  the  road  is  bad, 
but  wrong  when  it  is  good.  Roads  to  a  hotel  man 
are  as  a  poor  version  of  the  little  girl  who  had  a 
little  curl  right  down  in  the  middle  of  her  forehead : 
when  they  are  bad  they  are  very,  very  bad,  and  when 
they  are  good  they  are  fair. 

He  was  right  about  the  trucks.  Each  carried 
huge  stone  weights  giving  them  little  outings  up 
and  down  the  road  to  which  pleasure  they  were 
quite  indifferent.  How  much  better  if  they  would 
carry  for  their  tests:  "  School  No.  11—2,048  Ibs.," 

-j-20-*- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

for  instance,  or  "  20  Fat  Ladies  of  the  Dorcas  So- 
ciety— 6,000  Ibs.— with  clothes." 

We  were  just  getting  into  open  country  when  a 
kind  Board  of  Trade,  knowing  our  ignorance,  told 
us  on  a  large  sign:  "  This  is  Bound  Brook  where 
Washington  first  unfurled  the  Stars  and  Stripes." 
That  emptied  us  all  out  of  the  car,  Toby  to  run  in  a 
meadow  shouting  gratefully  "  I  like  this  Washing- 
ton," under  the  impression  that  the  Commander 
was  a  field  and  the  stars  and  stripes  a  daisy  new  to 
the  States. 

I  wonder  just  how  greatly  the  Arms  of  the 
Washington  family  influenced  the  design  of  our 
flag.  Some  say  it  was  pure  coincidence,  but  it  is 
hard  to  believe  that  a  device  continually  used  by 
George  Washington  (three  stars  at  the  top  of  the 
shield,  horizontal  stripes  and  bars  below)  did  not 
make  some  impression  upon  the  Continental  Con- 
gress when  this  arrangement  was  decided  upon  for 
a  national  emblem.  Yet  the  design  appears  to  be 
a  gradual  development  from  several  others  that 
were  used  by  the  various  colonies,  and  it  was  not 
until  June  14,  1777,  that  the  Continental  Congress 
resolved:  "  That  the  flag  of  the  United  States  be 
thirteen  stripes,  alternate  red  and  white,  that  the 
union  be  thirteen  stars,  white  on  a  blue  field,  repre- 
senting a  new  constellation." 

And  so  Betsy  Ross  made  it,  as  we  all  know,  and 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

while  the  B.  B.  B.  of  Trade  says  that  it  was  first 
unfurled  by  Washington  at  Bound  Brook,  the 
Brandy  wine  Board  of  Trade  would  probably  dis- 
pute this.  Yet  Washington  must  have  been  fairly 
well  occupied  at  Brandywine  fighting  off  Howe's 
superior  numbers,  and  when  night  came  withdraw- 
ing to  Chester,  "  after  burying  their  1,000  dead." 
For  in  those  strange  old  fashioned  times  the  soldier 
received  a  grave. 

At  all  events  we  were  glad  to  have  the  country- 
side placarded;  glad,  too,  when  the  various  towns 
extended  to  us  a  welcome  as  we  motored  on,  in- 
stead of  frightening  us  with  Don'ts.  It  engenders 
a  pleasant  feeling  of  comradeship,  this  painted 
greeting,  and  who  would  run  fast  through  a  com- 
rade's domain  if  he  asks  you  please  not  to  ?  W 

accepted  Somerville's  hospitality,  making  a  sketch 
of  a  remarkably  fine  square.  I  don't  know  how 
the  man  could  do  it  with  his  face  swelling  "  wis- 
ibly."  And  I  hope  you  admire  the  picture  for  he 
made  up  a  conundrum  as  he  worked.  ;<  Why  is  my 
tooth  like  this  square?"  he  asked. 

I  eased  his  pain  a  little  by  giving  it  up  immedi- 
ately. "  Because  it  hurts  to  draw  it,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

Shortly  after  this  came  the  White  House,  not  as 
a  reward  for  cleverness,  as  it  is  within  any  man's 
reach  who  follows  the  right  road.  It  has  become 

-J-22-?- 


ON  THE   RARITAN  AT   CLIXTOX 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

abbreviated  through  usage  to  White  House,  indeed 
it  is  now  a  town,  but  one  can  imagine  years  ago  a 
great  house  gleaming  white  which  was  used  as  a 
landmark — so  charmingly  do  names  develop.  But 
wouldn't  it  be  droll  if  New  York  were  called  Mc- 
Kenna's  Store!  However,  I  would  rather  live  at 
McKenna's  Store  than  at  Mabel,  and  that  dread- 
ful appellation  is  holding  down  a  few  shanties  out 
West.  Clinton,  without  the  originality  of  a  Broad- 
way comedian  as  to  name,  led  us  on  by  its  persistent 
sign  posts.  You  weren't  going  to  be  able  to  escape 
Clinton,  but  it  sweetly  took  you  along  a  brooky  way 
with  spring  calves  much  further  advanced  than  the 
flowers,  kicking  up  their  heels  at  us. 

I  went  into  the  village  store  at  Clinton  and  found 
some  originality  there  in  a  raspy-voiced  woman  who 
was  buying  Easter  plants  for  "  The  grave."  Her 
novelty  lay  in  alarming  truthfulness,  for  in  answer 
to  the  price  put  upon  the  flowers  by  a  very  gentle 
old  couple  she  exclaimed  "  Tain't  worth  it."  And 
while  one  may  often  feel  that  way  about  a  grave 
(the  grave  in  this  case  is  a  figure  of  speech — Me- 
tonymy it  is  called — container  for  the  thing  con- 
tained) I  have  never  heard  one  admit  it  so  freely. 

"  She  means  the  plant,"  said  the  gentle  old  couple 
— they  were  quite  indissoluble — when  I  spoke  of 
this,  and  I  thought  it  was  very  fine  of  them  to  stand 
up  for  her  against  my  frivolities.  Those  who  live 

-j-23-f- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

in  small  towns  must  have  an  endless  amount  of  con- 
trol. They  have  got  to  keep  friends  with  the  raspy 
of  voice.  There  is  no  escaping  them,  whereas  in  a 
big  city  we  can  shut  them  out  of  our  lives  as  easily 
as  we  turn  off  a  phonograph  if  the  record  is  un- 
pleasing. 

"  I  hope  you  are  getting  on,"  calls  the  Illustrator 
at  this  point.  I  am  really  trying  to,  but  it  is  hard 
when  one  has  been  bottled  up  in  cities  for  a  winter 
to  avoid  spending  a  great  deal  of  time  on  what  may 
be,  to  you,  an  unimportant  matter.  It  seems  wanton 
to  pass  a  pussywillow  without  giving  it  a  little  at- 
tention, and  I  am  always  so  sorry  to  go  in  and  out 
of  a  town  that  has  been  a  century  growing  with- 
out throwing  it  a  good  word.  The  creeping  in  of 
dusk  alone  quiets  me.  It  was  sunset  as  we  ap- 
proached the  New  Jersey  line  and  would  shortly 
cross  the  Delaware  into  Pennsylvania.  Men  were 
going  home  from  work,  and  just  before  we  reached 
Phillipsburg,  far  up  against  the  skyline  we  espied 
a  lovely  composition  for  the  painter  of  modern  life. 
It  was  a  hand-car  on  a  railway  carrying  home  its 
load  of  human  freight.  The  high  embankment,  the 
lonely  figures — "  What  is  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  Angelus,"  W replied,  and  of  course  it 

was. 

Across  the  river  lay  Easton  and  we  should  have 
gone  past  it  but  the  Huntington  Hotel  faced  the 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

open  square  which  was  commanded  by  a  monument. 
Around  the  shaft  were  thousands  of  flowering 
plants  on  sale  for  Easter,  and  the  colour  was  so 
lovely  that  we  wheeled  the  car  to  the  door,  and  I 
went  in — quaking — to  register. 

Toby  trotted  along  with  me,  for  I  would  have  no 
misunderstanding  and  be  turned  out  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  by  the  watchman.  I  would  not  speak 
of  the  dog  for  the  clerk  might  be  forced  into  say- 
ing they  couldn't  take  him.  But  he  was  with  me, 
and  I  will  say  this  for  Toby,  while  obstreperous  of- 
ten, he  never  failed  to  approach  a  desk  in  any  fash- 
ion but  one  of  extreme  modesty.  And  he  tried  very 
hard  to  look  like  a  toy  Japanese  spaniel. 

We  dined  (I  did,  the  Illustrator  had  mush)  at  an 
open  window  with  a  sale  of  crimson  ramblers  going 
on  outside.  A  very  large  rose  bush  nodded  in  on 
us.  Several  young  men  asked  the  price  of  it  but  as 
it  was  four  dollars  their  young  ladies  received,  in- 
stead, a  hyacinth  or  two.  The  meal  would  have 
been  unalloyed  save  that  we  mistook  a  certain  yip  in 
the  cogs  of  the  elevator  for  a  West  Highland  ter- 
rier. Yet  when  I  went  to  our  rooms  I  found  him 
peacefully  resting  on  one  of  our  garments.  And 
we  secured  quiet  from  him  after  that,  no  matter 
where  we  left  him,  by  throwing  down  a  coat  to  show 
that  we  would  return.  A  little  dog  having  but  one 
coat  himself  believes  a  mortal  equally  limited. 

-+•25-+- 


EASTER  FLOWERS  AT  EASTON 

The  best  part  of  motoring  is  walking  about  a 
strange  town  before  we  go  to  bed.  There  is  mys- 
tery in  the  unknown  street.  A  beautiful  old  church 
with  fine  windows  lay  behind  the  hotel  and  beyond 
that  an  elaborate  mansion,  made  entirely  from  silk 
I  understand,  and  suitable  for  the  Pare  Monceau  of 
Paris.  Across  the  way  a  chemist  refused  to  tell  me 
where  to  get  dog  biscuit  at  night,  but  said  to  call  in 
the  morning  and  he  would  "  explicitly  direct  me." 

W claimed  I  had  made  a  conquest  "  and 

worthy  of  it,"  but  his  compliment  was  but  the 
emanation  of  a  brain  numb  with  the  consciousness 
of  pain,  I  fear.  For,  on  his  way  to  bed,  he  accosted 
the  steward  at  the  restaurant  door.  I  knew  he 
was  asking  for  Philadelphia  scrapple,  but  the  stew- 
ard evinced  alarm,  as  the  tortured  man  was  demand- 
ing for  his  breakfast  "  a  little  shrapnel." 


26 


CHAPTER  III 

Starting  with  Toby  but  Ending  with  Battlefields 

THE  buds  of  the  tree  outside  my  window  had  burst 
their  bonds  and  were  looking  in  at  me  when  I 
awoke.  But  it  was  a  lady  tree,  I  think,  and  as  no 
other  was  so  well  advanced  I  took  this  as  a  compli- 
ment to  a  stranger. 

Following  the  fashion  of  the  inquisitive  leaves  I 

peeped  into  W 's  room  and  while  I  found  him 

sleeping,  his  faithful  hound  was  sitting  up  on  the 
bed  looking  at  me  reproachfully.  "  His  tooth  is 
worse,"  he  announced.  I  stared  back.  '  We've 
had  an  awful  time,"  and,  as  I  continued  unrespon- 
sive, "  that  ice  pack  you  bought  late  last  night — 
when  you  wouldn't  take  me  out  with  you — leaked 
all  over  us."  Although  of  a  sweet  disposition  he 
was  making  it  plain  that  the  ice  pack  would  not 
have  leaked  if  I  had  taken  him  along. 

So  the  morning  turned  out  to  be  a  busy  one.  It 
strikes  me  that  some  women  would  be  busy  any- 
where. I  have  often  talked  of  the  day  when  I 
would  rest,  but  no  doubt  I  should  work  harder  do- 
ing that  than  anything  else.  At  least  there  is  vari- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

ety  in  my  labours.  Who  would  have  thought  that  I 
should  spend  Good  Friday  in  Easton,  "  Pa."  heat- 
ing raisins  over  a  candle  and  putting  them  on  the 
Illustrator's  tooth? 

This  was  the  result  of  a  visit  to  the  dentist.  His 

name  was  Able  and,  thus  encouraged,  W was 

induced  to  go  to  him.  But  no  tortoise  ever  made  a 
slower  toilet  than  did  he.  Now  and  then  he 
groaned.  I  reminded  him  of  the  courage  of  Paul 
Revere.  "  '  A  cry  of  defiance  and  not  of  fear,'  "  he 
explained,  following  it  up  with  a  few  set  phrases 
about  the  ease  with  which  we  can  bear  other  peo- 
ple's pain. 

It  is  more  than  a  truth.  How  impossible  it  is  to 
believe  that  others  are  suffering  when  the  sun  is 
shining.  Easter  flowers  are  in  the  square,  and  you 
haven't  an  ache.  When  I  am  ill  myself  I  have 
thought  trained  nurses  a  very  hard  set,  but  I  sup- 
pose they  pretend  sympathy  as  well  as  healthy  crea- 
tures can. 

At  all  events  the  sufferer  stuck  to  his  raisins  all 
day  while  I  made  little  runs  about  the  town  and 
vast  discoveries.  There  is  one  house  in  the  square 
with  stiff  lace  certains  at  the  windows  which 
brought  to  my  mind  "  The  Old  Wives'  Tale."  By 
the  side  of  it  was  the  butcher's,  where  "  A  Big  Veal 
Sale  "  was  going  on,  also  "  Baby  Lamb  " — like  a 
fur  shop. 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

It  was  on  a  Good  Friday,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
that  I  received  a  baby  lamb  from  an  adoring  man 
old  enough  to  know  better,  who  afterwards  asked 
me  to  marry  him.  Young  girls  are  more  cruel  than 
those  battered  into  decency — don't  tell  me  we  grow 
hardened  with  the  years.  I  accepted  that  man  when 
I  was  sweet  sixteen  with  the  base  idea  of  holding  on 
to  him  until  I  got  a  better  chance.  I  am  glad  to 
report  that  he  finally  sent  me  a  note  severing  our 
relations  while  I  was  still  enjoying  his  buggy  rides. 
The  lamb  died,  and  he  went  away.  It  is  quite  like 
"  The  Old  Wives'  Tale."  End  of  lamb.  End  of 
man.  End  of  me ?  Not  yet. 

I  ran  back  to  W— —  to  ask  if  he  thought  getting 
him  had  been  the  punishment  for  my  early  wicked- 
ness. He  was  sitting  by  the  candle.  "  Never  again 
put  a  raisin  in  a  pudding,"  he  replied  irrelevantly. 
"  Go  to  church." 

The  bells  had  been  chiming  "  Rock  of  Ages,"  and 
I  went  into  the  fine  old  church  which  has  an  apse — 
it  might  be  called — redecorated  and  lighted  with  a 
sort  of  Russian  Ballet  result.  It  rendered  the  cler- 
gyman in  sober  black  unimportant.  It  made  the 
service  incongruous.  I  kept  wondering  if  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  ever  wondered  himself  if  he  was 
being  listened  to,  and  then  I  grew  nervous  for  fear 
he  would  point  his  finger  at  me  crying  out,  "  No, 
you  are  not  listening."  I  was  relieved  to  slip  away, 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

and  I  thought  the  flowers  in  the  streets  with  every 
one  buying  them  for  gifts  to  others  quite  as  beauti- 
ful a  form  of  religious  expression.  Even  the  chem- 
ist who  gave  me  back  my  money  for  the  ice  pack 
was  making  a  little  service  all  his  own.  I  went  back 
feeling  that  everything  was  all  right.  And  sure 
enough  it  was,  for  the  able  one  relieved  the  tooth, 
and  as  soon  as  I  could  drag  the  astonished  terrier 
into  the  car  we  were  on  the  way.  "  My  goodness," 
said  Toby,  "  ain't  this  our  new  house?  " 

One  thing  more  happened  at  Easton  which  I 
am  obliged  to  chronicle,  although  the  "  suspense  " 
is  over  when  you  know  The  Truth.  It  was  all  from 
that  fearful  attribute  hotel  men  have  of  remember- 
ing people.  "  I  don't  associate  you  with  a  ma- 
chine," he  said  as  I  paid  the  bill,  "  I  keep  thinking 
of — of  the  theatre."  And  so  the  murder  is  out. 
He  remembered  the  snow  storm,  and  the  try-out 
of  a  new  play;  the  all  night  dress  rehearsal,  and 
the  five  o'clock  coffee  which  he  had  ready  for 
us  when  we  dragged  ourselves  home  through  the 
drifts.  For  a  hotel  is  home  to  a  player  even  for  a 
night. 

I  would  not  speak  of  this  other  work  as  I  do  not 
need  an  engagement  for  next  year  so  am  making 
no  appeal  to  you.  But  I  find  myself  strongly  linked 
with  it  as  I  travel  through  the  country  en  auto. 
There  is  no  similarity.  It  is  by  contrast  that  we 

-j-30-J- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

get  true  values.  Conditions  are  better  in  hotels  than 
they  once  were  for  the  stroller,  but  there  is  still  a 
vast  difference  between  the  attention  paid  a  woman 
who  clambers  down  from  a  hotel  bus  and  asks  for  a 
rate,  and  the  one  who  descends  from  a  motor  lead- 
ing a  dog. 

And  so — looking  every  man  in  the  face — to  the 
land  of  the  Mennonites  and  the  Dunkards.  But 
there  is  ugly  country  before  we  get  to  the  rich  farm 
region  of  these  sober  people.  There  is,  par  ex- 
ample, the  town  of  Nazareth.  We  thought  Naz- 
areth from  afar  was  Bethlehem,  so  bare  was  the 
landscape.  But  we  found  this  to  be  only  the  shrink- 
ing of  the  herbage  from  the  dust  of  the  huge  ce- 
ment works  that  keep  the  town  prosperous.  I  sup- 
pose the  citizens  have  to  enjoy  themselves  no  matter 
what  is  the  unhappy  name  of  their  city,  but  a  Naz- 
areth road  house — really,  that  is  a  little  too  much. 
I  should  rather  stay  in  a  town  named  Mabel  with 
nothing  but  Mabel  to  live  up  to. 

We  jogged  over  a  bad  cement  road  which  spoke 
poorly  of  their  industry,  and  came  to  Bethlehem.  I 
was  prepared  for  something  ugly  but  stupendous. 
I  found  something  ugly — and  mean.  This  was 
hardly  the  fault  of  the  town  of  gentle  name.  The 
engines  of  war  are  not  found  in  their  making  along 
our  route.  Indeed,  we  saw  nothing  but  a  knitting 
works,  and  that  is  hardly  one's  idea  of  that  grim 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

commodity  which  by  a  glance  at  the  evening  paper 
wrecks  a  speculator  for  life. 

It  was  the  chauffeur — he  observes  almost  every- 
thing along  the  road  except  the  ruts — who  re- 
marked that  the  streets  were  empty.  They  were 
and  I  can't  imagine  any  pleasure  in  staying  out  to 
look  at  them.  When  we  did  attract  a  young  man, 
holding  his  attention  by  nearly  running  over  him, 
he  was  too  indignant  with  fear  and  alcohol  to  give 

us  any  information.  He  had  what  W called 

"  a  hot  cross  bun,"  a  possession  you  cannot  eat,  lose, 
destroy,  or  give  away,  and  a  poor  investment  for 
any  young  man's  money. 

Love  led  our  feet  out  of  Bethlehem.  We  made 
the  right  turn  for  Allentown  passing  a  piece  of  land 
which  a  large  sign  urged  us  to  "  Overlook  for  a 
Home,"  an  unnecessary  warning,  and  we  bumped 
our  way  on.  Many  passed  us  bumping  along  more 
happily  than  were  we,  and  leaving  a  cloud  of  dust 
behind.  [Query:  Why  does  every  one  leave  more 
dust  than  we  do?]  I  am  sure  people  who  motor 
over  these  roads  and  know  no  others  must  think 
rattling  about  is  a  part  of  travelling. 

This  is  like  a  young  lumberman  who,  many  years 
ago,  took  a  phonographic  French  course.  He  had 
never  heard  a  phonograph  and  he  had  never  heard 
French  and  he  came  out  of  the  woods  at  the  end 
of  the  Winter  speaking  the  language  with  an  accent 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

which  he  took  to  be  French  but  was  in  reality 
phonograph. 

One  can  have  all  patience  with  bad  roads  in  poor 
localities,  but  in  Bethlehem,  indeed,  out  of  it  and 
through  the  rich  farming  country  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Dutch  which  lay  ahead  of  us — well — even  El- 
sie Dinsmore  could  not  have  been  so  racked  with- 
out a  protest. 

Up  a  lovely  old  street  to  the  Allentown  Hotel, 
out  of  it  quickly,  restrained  from  refreshment  by  a 
"  Bar  Closes  on  Good  Friday  from  6  to  8."  No 
one  seemed  to  know  why  these  two  hours  were 
chosen.  It  must  be  for  the  reason  that  one  thou- 
sand, nine  hundred  and  sixteen  years  ago  at  this 
time  darkness  fell  upon  the  land. 

Darkness  came  upon  us  quickly,  great  storm 
clouds  rolled  up  from  our  direction.  One  could 
look  far  out  over  the  countryside  when  the  light- 
ning rent  the  clouds.  Women  scurried  along  the 
roadside  flowers  in  their  arms.  To  feel  the  awe  of 
Holy  Week  one  must  travel  through  a  wide  coun- 
try. Even  in  a  city  we  know  only  our  own  narrow 
circle  to  be  awake  to  the  significance  of  the  hour, 
but  on  and  on  and  on  as  we  went  was  the  same 
flood  of  feeling. 

The  rain  descended  nor  would  we  have  had  the 
night  different,  though  we  made  our  way  slowly. 
At  Kutzville  we  asked  at  an  old  stone  inn  if  they 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

could  give  us  something  for  supper.  It  was  past 
the  hour  but  they  accommodated  us.  And  while 
the  food  offered  had  little  to  recommend  it,  the 
motorist  in  America  is  so  pleased  to  find  the  oblig- 
ing spirit  that  we  had  only  gratitude  for  the  effort. 

We  went  on  through  the  rain  and  blackness.  I 

was  snug  within.  W had  been  frightened  by 

the  coming  storm  into  rushing  up  the  top  before  I 
was  even  wet.  The  last  service  of  the  week  was 
over.  The  Passion  was  at  an  end.  Women  were 
coming  out  of  the  country  churches  along  the  way, 
the  wind  beating  their  wet  garments  about  them. 
Our  lights  shone  in  their  faces.  One  woman  we 
came  upon  suddenly — her  head  was  uncovered,  her 
white  face  and  brilliant  eyes  made  a  quick  picture 
upon  my  brain.  She  was  smiling  mysteriously,  she 
was  exalted  with  the  enormity  of  the  hour.  She  was 
enjoying  the  reliving  of  the  Passion. 

Strange  thoughts  came  to  me.  Did  "  Mary  the 
wife  of  Cleophas,  and  Mary  Magdalene "  and 
Mary  the  Virgin  find,  besides  their  sorrow,  an 
exquisite  emotional  stimulus  in  the  death  of  the 
Good  Man  they  all  knew?  This  would  not  be 
wrong  to  me.  It  would  not  be  dreadful  to  feel  that 
religion  could  fill  every  corner  of  a  woman's  lonely 
heart. 

Out  of  the  night  rose  a  great  munition  factory, 
furnaces  glowing  like  the  pit.  And  again  I  asked 


THE  OLD  VALLEY  INN  OX  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY, 
NEAR  YORK,  PENNSYLVANIA 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

myself  if  this  was  the  only  way — this  killing — to 
preserve  a  nation's  honour.  Yet  in  spite  of  the 
precepts  of  Him  who  had — it  seemed — but  this  day 
died  I  now  feel  that  it  is. 

On  the  outskirts  of  Reading  a  big  motor  full  of 
pretty  girls  dressed  for  a  party  offered  to  go  out  of 
their  way  to  lead  us  to  the  new  hotel.  I  thought  it 
was  very  decent  of  them  with  their  hair  coming  out 
of  curl  every  minute  to  make  this  detour — decent, 
yes,  and  religious. 

"  My  goodness,"  said  Toby,  walking  into  marble 
halls.  "  Have  we  got  another  house?  " 

There  are  many  things  about  the  Berkshire 
Hotel  to  recommend  it,  but  I  was  most  touched  by 
the  card  on  my  desk.  It  was  a  pleasant  word  of 
welcome.  It  did  not  tell  you  of  the  things  you  must 
not  do  as  in  the  old  days.  You  were  not  warned 
that  food  carried  from  the  table  would  be  charged 
extra  or  that  you  must  receive  company  in  the  par- 
lour. And  stealing  of  towels  was  left  to  the  good 
taste  of  the  guest.  Lacking  prohibition  of  any  sort 
we  behaved  ourselves  extraordinarily  well,  and  the 
only  act  I  committed  which  could  be  questioned 
was  the  carrying  off  of  the  card  itself.  For  which 
I  hope  The  Berkshire  will  forgive  me. 

I  believe  we  are  all  growing  honester  as  hotels  are 
growing  more  courteous.  The  housekeepers  in  the 
linen  room  and  the  Pullman  porters  say  that  theft 

H-35-+- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

is  lessening  each  year,  and  it  must  be  that  we  are 
developing  a  sense  of  public  service — which  is  but 
the  Golden  Rule  organised,  enfranchised,  with  up 
and  down  town  offices. 

I  found  myself  very  tremulous  the  next  morning 
for  we  should  be  on  the  threshold  of  the  Old  Do- 
minion by  nightfall  and  almost  ready  to  begin  this 
book.  "  Start  the  first  chapter  with  Maryland  and 
Virginia,"  my  publishers  had  advised  me,  so  I  said 
I  would.  But  you  might  as  well  want  your  son  to 
be  born  at  twelve  years  of  age.  This,  I  believe,  is 
impossible,  although  to  judge  by  the  birth  column 
one  would  think  it  apt  to  happen.  "  Mrs.  John  Ed- 
wards is  the  mother  of  a  baby  girl,"  the  papers 
solemnly  announce,  as  though  Mrs.  John  Edwards 
might  have  brought  into  the  world  a  young  woman 
almost  ready  for  the  altar. 

It  looked  at  one  time  as  though  Toby  and  I 
would  not  leave  Reading  at  all.  While  they  were 
putting  on  the  luggage  we  ran  in  and  out  of  a  num- 
ber of  charming  streets,  lined  with  old  brick  houses 
with  the  clean  scrubbed  stone  steps  that  Reading's 
big  sister,  Philadelphia,  has  always  advocated. 
Here  and  there  was  a  wide  gallery  at  the  back  of 
the  house  which  gave  more  promise  of  the  Old  Do- 
minion than  I  am  doing.  We  ran  until  we  were  lost 
and  didn't  remember  the  name  of  the  hotel,  and 
were  ashamed  to  ask. 

H-36-J- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

It  was  amusing  in  a  way.  What  if.  we  never 
found  our  way  back  and  would  have  to  begin  life 
all  over  again?  I  suppose  that  has  entered  the  mind 
of  every  woman,  but  not  many  have  the  courage 
of  one  I  knew.  She  was  driving  in  an  open  Vic- 
toria in  the  crowded  streets  of  Paris,  and  her  hus- 
band who  had  been  fairly  cross  with  her  for  some 
twenty  years  was  cross  a  little  bit  more.  There  was 
a  block  and  his  attention  was  held  to  his  side  of  the 
way,  so  she  stepped  out  on  her  side  and  he  never  got 
a  trace  of  her  again.  How  funny  he  must  have  felt 
when  he  looked  around  to  find  her  gone.  "  Did  you 
see  my  wife? "  he  would  have  to  say  to  the  cocker. 

W was  asking  that  as  we  came  back,  but  not 

feeling  at  all  uneasy  about  me,  although  I  have  told 
him  the  story  a  number  of  times.  His  first  words 
were  "  I  was  worried  about  the  dog."  But  he  was 
no  more  worried  than  Toby  as  he  left  his  handsome 
new  home.  He  looked  at  me  questioningly  out  of 
his  three  of  spades  face.  Why  were  we  running 
away  all  the  time!  "  It  ain't  debts,  is  it,  Louise?  " 

The  Reading  Automobile  Club  has  put  up  a 
novel  sign  telling  the  motorist  when  he  has  reached 
the  city  limits  and  can  speed  up.  It  does  more — it 
points  the  road  to  Lancaster  and,  admitting  it  is  the 
State  Highway,  leaves  it  up  to  the  state  to  apolo- 
gise. We  had  already  grown  nervous  when  a  road 
is  called  a  pike,  and  I  am  sure  judging  by  its  usual 

.-e-37-i- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

poor  condition  that  the  term  "  piker "  comes 
directly  from  it. 

We  were  immediately  among  the  farms  of  the 
Mennonites  and  the  Dunkards.  I  took  them  to  be 
Shakers  at  first  from  their  black  bonnets,  and  I  was 
troubled  to  see  the  scandalous  fashion  that  the 
women  were  driving  about  with  the  men.  But 
these  first  sects  marry,  for  the  Dunkards  are  sim- 
ply German  Baptists,  and  the  Mennonites  a  relig- 
ious order  of  Protestant  Dutch  and  German  who, 
persecuted  in  Catholic  countries,  were  invited  here 
by  the  astute  William  Penn.  They  are  generally 
admitted  as  the  best  citizens  any  state  ever  had,  and 
that  may  be  so,  but  they  are  certainly  the  worst  road 
menders.  I  doubt  if  they  care  for  anything  beyond 
their  church  service  and  the  limits  of  their  farms, 
and  they  must  be  having  a  very  uncomfortable  time 
of  it  now  for  they  are  opposed  to  all  war,  oaths,  and 
law  suits. 

W got  out  to  make  a  sketch  of  one  of  their 

huge  barns,  a  barn  which  should  not  have  been  per- 
petuated as  it  was  the  only  dirty  one  on  the  day's 
run  and  was  a  failure  as  a  picture.  A  very  kindly 
Protestant  cat  tried  to  make  friends  with  Toby  who 
chased  her  about  as  though  he  were  a  Catholic.  In 
turn  he  was  routed  by  a  litter  of  the  smallest  pigs  I 
have  ever  seen.  To  our  reproaches  he  replied  that 
Satan  was  within  them,  and  I  knew  then  why  he 

-j-38-i- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

had  sat  up  so  late  reading  the  Bible  which  was 
"  Placed  in  This  Room  by  the  Gideons."  Toby  is 
like  the  old  darky :  he  can  read  readin'  but  he  can't 
read  writin'. 

It  was  a  very  merry  farmyard  with  white  leg- 
horns flying  clear  over  the  barn  which  a  young  man, 
clipping  a  horse,  said  was  nothing  at  all.  I  became 
as  friendly  as  I  can  with  any  one  who  takes  four 
minutes  to  answer  a  question.  We  discussed  hens, 
I  assuming  an  enormous  knowledge.  He  said  they 
didn't  hatch  out  chickens  any  more,  they  bought 
them,  and  I  said  we  bought  ours  too. 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  the  Illustrator,  his  eraser  in 
his  mouth,  "  how  you  can  be  so  dishonest." 

"  Don't  we  buy  all  our  chickens,"  I  replied  to 
him.  "  Do  we  hatch  them  on  the  fire  escape? " 

"  Dishonest,"  he  hissed  back.  You  can  hiss  dis- 
honest even  better  with  an  eraser  in  your  mouth. 

One  thing  I  did  not  ask  the  young  man  because 
it  would  take  four  minutes  for  him  to  say  he  didn't 
understand,  four  more  for  him  to  ask  "  What 
doors?"  and  four  more  for  the  reply  "I  didn't 
notice  it  yet." 

I  had  found  that  the  response  to  my  query  all 
along  the  way  was  "  I  didn't  notice  it  yet."  My 
question  was  simple  enough.  I  wanted  to  know 
why  all  the  great  stone  houses  on  the  farms  or  those 
in  the  neat  little  towns  have  two  front  doors.  They 

-e-39-+- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

have,  and  they  lead  into  the  same  house — for  I 
looked.  They  have  been  that  way  for  a  century  or 
more,  and  new  ones  are  going  up  in  the  same  fash- 
ion. There  was  less  inclination  to  talk  of  this  in  the 
towns,  gleaming  with  fresh  paint,  that  ran  along 
one  street  like  a  Dutch  village  edging  a  canal.  The 
road  very  truly  stood  for  the  canal.  Ephrata  which 
called  attention  to  itself  miles  in  advance  gave  me 
nothing  to  hug  to  my  heart  save  the  name  of  a  piano 
tuner :  "  I.  List,"  and  a  hotel  which  was  called  The 
Cocalico.  Think  of  a  stranger  with  a  "  hot  cross 
bun  "  trying  to  get  back  to  The  Cocalico.  To  be 

sure  there  was  a  pig  market  in  Ephrata,  but  W 

said  he  would  not  stop  and  have  me  pretend  to  raise 
pigs.  I  explained  to  him  as  gently  as  would  El- 
sie that  I  had  to  get  at  the  people. 

"  You  can  never  get  at  these  people.  They've 
moved  out  here  to  keep  you  from  getting  at  them. 
They  keep  their  roads  this  way  to  discourage  you." 

I  felt,  too,  that  it  was  futile,  but  I  was  permitted 
to  stop  at  a  lovely  old  tavern  in  a  little  place  called 
Oregon  where  a  village  idler  sat  on  the  veranda, 
and  village  idlers  are  reputed  for  their  loquacity. 
With  one  eye  on  the  Illustrator  I  whispered  to  the 
man  that  my  people  came  from  this  locality. 

"Did?"  ' 

Yes,  then  they  went  to  Indiana. 

"  Did? " 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

But  they  always  talked  of  Pennsylvania. 

"Did?" 

Yet  I  could  feel  an  idea  working  somewhere 
within  his  head.  And  I  waited,  and  at  last  the 
thought  was  clothed  in  language  and  could  go  out 
into  the  world. 

'  Why  for  did  they  go  already?  " 

I  said  they  went  to  raise  extensive  vocabularies. 
They  grew  very  well  in  Indiana.  It  was  the  home 
of  them.  I  sold  mine  to  the  New  York  markets. 

"Did?" 

The  new  Brunswick  Hotel  in  Lancaster  soothed 
me  a  little  as  it  had  only  one  large  door.  This  had 
that  revolving  arrangement  in  it  to  keep  out 
draughts.  (Amazing  that  I  don't  know  what  this 
type  of  door  is  called !)  Toby  got  in  one  of  the  sec- 
tions by  himself  and  we  had  to  revolve  him  around 
a  number  of  times  like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage  before 
he  would  empty  himself  out.  It  created  a  good 
deal  of  amusement  on  the  part  of  the  guests  of  the 

hotel,  and  as  we  sat  down  to  luncheon  W asked 

if  I  didn't  notice  that  we  were  always  attracting  at- 
tention. Don't  tell  me  that  women  are  conven- 
tional. Every  man,  I  believe,  comes  into  the  world 
with  a  book  of  etiquette  in  his  hand. 

Through  being  watched  carefully  by  him,  I  was 
not  able  to  ask  the  waiters  why  there  were  two 
doors  to  the  houses,  so  I  managed  it  only  once  in 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

Lancaster.  The  question  was  put  to  a  young  lady 
of  whom  I  bought  hair-nets  at  the  jewelry  counter 
of  a  shop.  I  explained  that  I  was  from  New 
York,  where  we  had  but  one  front  door  for  a 
great  many  families,  and  I  thought  it  rather  un- 
fair that  one  family  should  have  more  than  its 
share.  She  didn't  know,  but  she  was  neither  a  Dun- 
kard  nor  a  Mennonite,  and  she  rather  intelligently 
said  "  It  must  be  for  some  reason,  as  they  had  a  pur- 
pose for  everything." 

She  looked  at  me  wistfully  as  I  waited  for  my 
change. 

"New  York!"  she  mused.  "You  must  find 
it  very  quiet  here  after  so  much  excitement."  I 
tried  to  explain  to  her  as  the  bill  swept  along  a 
copper  wire  to  come  back  considerably  reduced  (so 
has  the  war  raised  the  price  of  hair-nets)  that  the 
people  I  knew  in  New  York  formed  such  a  little 
circle  that  we  were  almost  like  a  country  town. 
"  But  there  must  be  so  many  calls  to  make,"  she 
persisted. 

I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  ever  made  calls. 
Among  my  heathen  friends  there  is  an  understand- 
ing that  we  dine  and  go  to  dances  but  we  do  not 
call  upon  the  hostess  afterward.  How  well  I  re- 
member when  I  was  a  young  girl  going  out  on  hot 
afternoons  with  my  pasteboards  in  a  little  case,  and 
how  long  I  would  have  to  wait  in  the  parlours  while 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

the  unfortunate  wretches  dressed  themselves.  No 
one  would  say  they  were  not  at  home  in  Indiana. 
Now  I  respond  over  the  telephone  to  the  boy  down- 
stairs who  has  announced  some  intrepid  acquaint- 
ance that  I  have  just  stepped  out,  and  he  delivers 
my  message  without  the  turn  of  a  hair — or  a  wool. 

Once  I  went  to  Africa  fortified  by  a  single  visit- 
ing card  which  was  to  tell  Arabs  where  to  send  my 
purse  if  they  found  it.  But  in  the  course  of  events 
a  dancing  girl  asked  to  write  her  address  for  me 
that  I  might  come  to  see  her  house.  I  offered  her 
my  card  on  which  she  scribbled  her  name  in  Arabic 
which  was  of  small  use  to  me.  But  I  tucked  it 
away,  and  a  few  weeks  after  that,  in  Rome,  I  was 
granted  an  audience  with  the  Holy  Father.  I  ar- 
rived at  the  Vatican  looking  very  unhappy  in  a 
black  gown  borrowed  from  a  small  thin  lady's  maid 
and  a  black  veil  over  my  head  which  I  was  forced 
to  buy.  At  the  last  moment,  just  as  I  was  about 
to  be  ushered  into  the  presence  of  that  kindly  white- 
robed  figure,  one  of  the  magnificent  gentlemen  up- 
holstered in  red  tapestry  demanded  my  card — my 
only  card.  So  the  Pope  has  the  address  of  the  poor 
little  dancing  girl — about  the  last  creature  in  the 
world  who  would  have  a  chance  to  see — or  care  to 
see — her  lazy  twirling  about. 

I  forgot  to  say,  but  must  in  all  honour,  that  a 
fine  road  led  from  Oregon  into  Lancaster.  After 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

Lancaster  there  was  a  something  that  was  better 
even  than  a  fine  road — although  it  was  quite  excel- 
lent— something  that  was  painted  every  five  hun- 
dred yards  on  telegraph  poles.  It  gave  me  a  great 
thrill  at  the  first  sight  of  it,  and  kept  me  palpitating 
for  a  long  while.  It  was  the  insignia  of  the  Lin- 
coln Highway:  A  band  of  red  at  the  top,  a  broad 
area  of  white  below  with  a  big  blue  L  on  the  sur- 
face, and  another  strip  of  blue  at  the  bottom.  At 
one  turn  was  a  sign  post,  just  as  calm  as  you  please : 
"  New  York  172  miles — San  Francisco  3,217  miles." 

We  kept  thinking  how  proud  Lincoln  would  be 
of  this  road  even  if  it  did  not  bear  his  name.  It  is 
fitting  that  it  should  be  his.  As  a  boy  he  knew  the 
untrod  ways  of  the  actual  wilderness.  Grown  to 
manhood  he  made  a  path  through  tracts  of  mental 
desolation,  created  beautiful  spiritual  clearings,  and 
sowed  with  infinite  wisdom  the  seeds  of  a  great 
State.  For  him  the  labour  of  the  pioneer,  for  us  the 
harvest — and  the  long  blazed  trail  across  a  country 
for  which  he  gave  his  life. 

We  were  to  leave  this  Lincoln  Highway  at  Get- 
tysburg, but  we  were  happy  that  it  was  to  lead  us 

to  the  mighty  battlefield.  W besought  me  to 

keep  watch  for  the  repeated  emblem  in  the  hope 
that  I  would  not  see  the  two  doors  in  front,  and 
flounce  about.  "  Try  not  to  see  them,"  he  urged. 

"  Am  I  not  to  enlighten  the  public,"  I  demanded, 
-e-  44  -*- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

"  and  isn't  it  awful  to  be  vanquished  by  an  extra 
door?" 

"  I  suppose,"  he  hazarded,  "  they  are  like  Sir 
Isaac  Newton's  doors — one  for  the  big  cat  and  one 
for  the  little  one." 

The  chauffeur  who  had  the  soothing  manner  that 
is  very  irritating,  suggested  that  I  close  my  eyes.  I 
did  this,  but  he  kept  looking  around  at  me — with 
that  too  large  interest  he  had  in  the  world — and  we 
very  nearly  hung  a  string  of  mules  on  the  radiator. 
We  did  turn  out  in  time,  but  the  muleteer  was  most 
ungrateful. 

'  Why  don't  you  give  me  the  road?  "  he  roared. 

W roared  back  that  we  had  given  it  to  him. 

'  Yes,  but  only  half  of  it,"  grunted  the  greedy 
man. 

I  kept  my  eyes  open  after  that,  for  I  may  not  be 
much  use  in  a  car  but  I  have  always  noticed  that 
something  happens  if  I  don't  watch,  and  I  should 
most  certainly  have  missed  a  delightful  stone  house 
of  1697.  It  had  hung  out,  on  a  fine  new  shingle, 
the  name  of  Valley  Inn  nicely  flanked  by  pine  trees, 
with  further  announcements  on  an  oak  tree  that 
chicken  dinners  would  be  served.  A  gentleman  in 
the  back  yard  was  calling  the  chickens.  You  could 
see  that  he  was  new  to  the  business  by  the  affection 
he  was  showing  them.  No  one  can  possibly  like 
chickens  who  has  spent  much  time  in  their  com- 

-*-  45-*- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

pany.  A  very  pretty  daughter  came  out  to  greet 
us,  and  corroborated  this  inference  by  saying  that 
they  had  just  taken  the  inn,  having  come  out  from 
the  city.  With  metropolitan  vanity  I  thought  she 
meant  New  York  of  course,  but  it  was  York,  which 
lay  a  little  way  ahead. 

She  was  a  very  attractive  girl,  and  made  the  Il- 
lustrator wish  he  painted  portraits  of  nice  eyes  and 
noses  and  mouths  instead  of  forever  presenting 
hard  stone  surfaces  which  increase  in  value  as  they 
grow  older  and  older.  Since  I  am  not  a  young  girl 
— not  exactly — it  is  rather  agreeable  to  dwell  upon 
the  advantage  of  being  an  admired  old  stone  house. 
How  nice  if  the  world  would  say  of  a  woman: 
"  Isn't  she  charming — she's  over  two  hundred  years 
old,"  or  "  How  beautifully  she  shows  her  age — look 
at  the  cracks  in  her  face."  I  suppose  I  should  say 
"  her  fa9ade,"  speaking  architecturally. 

If  wrinkles  were  a  "  consummation  devoutly  to 
be  wished  for  "  my  bag  of  bottles  would  be  much 
less  troublesome.  I  should  like  to  write  about  these 
various  unguents  that  I  acquired  before  leaving, 
and  explain  how  I  am  supposed  to  smatter  ( I  think 
they  call  the  process  smattering)  my  face  every 
night.  The  beauty  expert  told  me  I  should  have 
plenty  of  time  while  motoring,  so  it  has  a  place  as 
part  of  an  automobile  tour,  and  while  I  dare  not 
now  I  hope  to  slip  the  process  into  a  chapter  some 


GULP'S  HILL,  GETTYSBURG  BATTLEFIELD 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

day  when  the  Illustrator  has  gone  to  the  ball 
game. 

I  particularly  want  to  talk  about  it  here  to  make 
you  forget  that  I  haven't  told  you  why  the  English 
settlers  gave  these  towns — York  and  Lancaster — 
the  names  of  the  two  great  houses  of  the  Red  and 
White  Rose.  The  settlers  were  funny.  They  came 
over  here  to  escape  the  persecution  of  their  own 
country,  and  they  immediately  named  their  new 
towns  after  the  old  ones,  and  began  persecuting  on 
their  own  hook. 

In  York  I  asked  a  small  boy,  who  was  trying  to 
sell  me  a.  two  days'  old  Philadelphia  paper  with  his 
thumb  over  the  date,  if  York  and  Lancaster  were 
still  fighting,  and  he  sneered  "Lancaster — huh!" 
So  I  infer  some  sort  of  rivalry  is  still  going  on  if 
war  is  only  waged  in  print.  The  Susquehanna 
River  flows  between  the  two  cities  with  a  bridge 
over  it  a  mile  long,  and  I  know  nothing  more  cool- 
ing to  hot  blood  than  a  body  of  water.  Then,  too, 
they  always  charge  twenty-six  cents  to  cross  the 
bridge,  and  you  have  to  hate  a  man  pretty  hard 
these  days  to  pay  twenty-six  cents  to  go  over  and 
fight  him. 

Visitors  from  the  East  who  go  to  Gettysburg  and 
return,  generally  stay  in  York  over  night  or  motor 
on  to  the  new  hotel  in  Lancaster.  But  we  were  to 
make  a  circular  tour  with  as  little  retracing  as  pos- 

-t-47-*- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

sible,  and  country  inns  were  to  be  our  portion  along 
with  the  fireproof  caravansaries.  So  on  we  went 
to  Gettysburg. 

It  became  a  way  of  toll  gates  which  the  motor- 
ist never  decries  as  it  means  good  roads,  except  for 
the  bother  of  having  to  stop.  Some  very  nice  girls 
wearing  white  Dunkard  indoor  caps,  took  our  mite 

occasionally.  Poor  W always  paid  the  toll 

very  quickly,  although  he  would  have  enjoyed  talk- 
ing to  them,  as  he  feared  I  should  ask  about  the 
doors.  I  did  not  want  to  ask  young  ladies  about 
doors,  but  I  was  mad  to  find  out,  without  asking,  if 
these  girls  ever  longed  for  the  gay  flower-encrusted 
hats  that  many  of  their  companions  wore.  I  can't 
say  I  found  any  longing  in  their  eyes,  just  as  I  have 
never  seen  in  a  nun's  face  anything  but  supreme 
content. 

I  did  speak  to  one  boy,  who  took  our  money, 
about  this  annoyance  of  stopping  when  you  live  in 
the  vicinity  and  must  pass  over  the  road  every  day. 
He  had  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  either  from 
thinking  hard  or  trying  hard  to  think.  I  asked 
him  if  the  authorities  did  not  arrange  some  way  for 
the  constant  passerby  to  pay  by  the  year  and  flash  a 
ticket  without  going  into  neutral.  He  was  very 
positive  about  it.  He  said  that  such  an  arrange- 
ment could  not  be  made.  At  that  a  car  rushed  by, 
the  driver  swiftly  displaying  a  coloured  card.  I  was 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

severe  with  the  boy — I  said  he  was  deceiving 
me. 

"  No,"  said  the  wrinkled  youth,  "  they  pay  by  the 
month." 

Little  chills  of  excitement  began  creeping  over 
us  as  we  neared  Gettysburg.  I  was  surprised  to  ex- 
perience this  as  historical  events,  even  of  our  great 
battles,  have  never  stirred  me  as  do  dramatic  inci- 
dents of  my  own  day.  No  doubt  it  is  our  present 
close  relationship  to  war  that  gives  us  a  rich  appre- 
ciation of  our  own  belligerent  times.  Now  that 
our  trip  is  over  and  I  can  look  back  upon  it,  I  still 
feel  the  sensation  of  pride  that  was,  till  then,  new 
to  me ;  and  I  hope  that  you  will  all  go  to  these  bat- 
tlefields of  our  fathers  while  you  are  quick  with 
the  anguish  of  bleeding  nations.  I  would  not  have 
thought  there  could  be  so  much  emotion  in  a  field 
of  grain  with  a  shaft  of  granite  by  the  roadside. 

Our  sensitiveness  to  the  proximity  of  Gettysburg 
was  not,  however,  great  enough  to  carry  us  there 
direct.  We  mistook  New  Oxford  for  the  little 
town  of  German  name  and  were  only  dissuaded 
from  disembarking  our  cargo  by  an  honest  hotel 
keeper.  A  little  later  the  trunk,  the  dressing  case 
of  bottles  (for  smattering  the  wrinkles)  the  hat 
box,  the  khaki  book-case,  and  the  dog  biscuits  were 
being  gallumped  upstairs — gallumped  is  the  only 
word  for  it — to  very  nice  rooms  with  a  bath  that 

H-  49  -*-. 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

looked  out  upon  the  square.  Before  any  one  cor- 
rects me,  the  bath  looks  out  upon  the  square  and 
so  do  the  rooms. 

The  Illustrator  came  up  after  all  the  work  was 
done  to  say  he  had  been  very  busy  engaging  a  guide 
for  the  next  morning.  I  asked  him  what  he  had  to 
do  to  find  this  man,  and  it  seemed  that  the  gentle- 
man had  asked  him  before  he  got  out  of  the  car  if 
he  wanted  a  guide  and  he  said  that  he  did.  This 
completed  the  operation,  proving  the  despatch  with 
which  a  man  can  dispose  of  important  matters.  I 
suppose  getting  a  guide  is  really  the  first  thing  you 
do  in  Gettysburg.  The  clerk  in  the  office  congratu- 
lated us,  and  said  it  was  wonderful  our  picking  the 
best  man  in  town.  That  he  lived  in  the  hotel,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  since  it  turned  out  very 
well,  I  am  sure  that  he  was  the  best. 

Following  the  engaging  of  Mr.  Sneed — that  was 
his  name  the  Illustrator  said — he  and  Toby  went 
out  for  a  walk,  the  latter  very  martial  and  growl- 
ing all  along  the  way.  W purchased  largely, 

sending  home  his  small  parcels  after  the  elegant  air 
of  a  man  who  will  not  carry  a  collar.  But  it  was 
very  pleasant  to  hear  the  little  white  bell  boy  pre- 
sent his  packages  with  an  invariable  formula: 
"  Missus,  Mister  sent  you  this."  One  was  a  pine- 
apple for  my  sore  throat,  and  another,  to  my  alarm, 
was  an  extra  history.  I  regretted  this  as  the  S.  H. 

-4-50-e- 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

of  the  U.  S.  had  sufficiently  confused  me  already 
with  Earlys,  and  Ewells,  and  Hills — both  of  earth 
and  men.  With  a  guide  full  of  information,  too,  I 
knew  I  should  never  make  head  or  tail  of  the  great 
three-day  fight. 

The  lights  were  twinkling  in  the  square  before 

we  went  down  to  supper,  and  W came  in  as 

I  was  enjoying  the  gentle  scene.  He  pointed  to  a 
building,  quite  near  us,  wonderfully  near,  and 
asked  me  if  I  knew  who  had  slept  in  one  of  those 
upper  chambers  that  were  now  dimly  lighted.  I 
was  so  afraid  that  it  wasn't  going  to  turn  out  to  be 
Lincoln  that  I  couldn't  find  any  voice  to  ask,  and 
as  I  couldn't  have  used  my  voice  had  it  been  where 
Lincoln  slept  the  night  before  he  made  the  Gettys- 
burg speech,  I  kept  silent.  The  Illustrator,  seeing 
my  distress,  became  not  certain  that  it  was  the 
Wills  house,  and  suggested  that  we  ask  in  the  din- 
ing room. 

We  went  down.  How  stupidity  takes  the  lump 
out  of  one's  throat!  We  were  late,  and  had  most 
of  the  young  men  and  women  attendants  to  our- 
selves. The  girls  wore  high  white  kid  boots  but 
not  one  of  them  knew  of  the  famous  house  in  their 
own  square  which  had  sheltered  our  "  Brave 
Martyred  Chief."  They  had  not  heard  that  it 
was  the  house  of  David  Wills,  who  had  first  urged 
that  Gettysburg  be  made  a  national  cemetery.  I 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

didn't  expect  any  one  to  know  it  who  lived  as  far 
away  as  New  Oxford.  I  wasn't  so  sure  of  it  myself 
before  I  bought  the  S.  H.  of  the  U.  S.,  but  these 
people  make  their  living  out  of  such  home-made 
facts. 

One  young  waiter  did  offer  a  decent  enough  ex- 
cuse— he  said  he  came  from  Dalmatia.  This  inter- 
ested the  Illustrator  who  has  always  wanted  to  take 
me  there,  and  the  respect  he  feels  for  the  traveller 
came  into  his  eyes.  He  remarked  that  it  was  a  long 
way  off. 

"  Thirty-seven  miles,"  assented  the  wanderer. 

"  I  meant  the  Dalmatia  of  Europe,"  said  W 

very  coldly,  not  looking  at  me. 

The  young  man  gathered  up  my  stewed  cherries. 
"  I  heard  there  was  another  one." 

I  stood  outside  of  the  Wills  house  that  evening 
and  watched  the  soda-water  fountain  installed  on 
the  ground  floor  do  a  good  "  Easter-egg-sundae  " 
business.  The  upper  room  is  shown  to  visitors,  but 
with  a  sore  throat  one  is  apt  to  be  a  little  too  emo- 
tional so  I  didn't  go  up.  I  wasn't  annoyed  with 
the  waitresses  in  high  kid  boots  any  more.  How 
Lincoln  would  have  enjoyed  that  story  on  himself. 

"  I  must  joke,"  he  said  to  some  of  those  about  the 
Executive  Mansion  who  in  their  supreme  conceit 
remonstrated  with  him.  "If  I  don't  I  shall  go 
mad." 


ENDING  WITH  BATTLEFIELDS 

When  we  were  back  in  our  rooms  W read 

the  speech  aloud  while  I  sipped  the  pineapple  juice 
and  looked  over  to  the  Wills  house.  It  is  thought 
in  the  hour  after  he  left  the  breakfast  table,  before 
rejoining  his  friends,  he  may  have  put  those  im- 
mortal lines  into  final  form.  But  it  makes  one  very 
happy  to  be  told  by  those  who  have  studied  the  sub- 
ject that  he  was  probably  a  long  time  arranging 
in  his  orderly  and  rhythmical  mind  his  almost  exact 
text.  It  is  right  that  it  should  be  this  way — that  a 
great  masterpiece  should  be  turned  out  with  the 
care  that  is  given  every  work  from  the  shop  of  an 
artist.  Literature  would  be  a  cheap  thing  if  it  were 
easy. 


53 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  Sing  of  Arms — Then  Maryland,  My  Maryland 
and  the  Old  Dominion  at  Last 

THE  three  days'  battling  at  Gettysburg  is  a  very 
involved  piece  of  mathematics,  but  it  is  no  more 
intricate  to  work  out  than  the  blending  of  a  full 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  full  cup  of  milk  when  there  is 
no  third  cup  at  hand. 

I  went  down  to  breakfast  intent  upon  the 
strategy  of  war  and  saying  to  myself,  "  Buford  be- 
gan it  and  don't  forget  he  was  a  Yankee."  I 
thought  if  I  could  start  right  with  the  Generals  I 
would  not  be  surprised  when  I  found  that  the 
North  won  the  three  days'  struggle. 

The  coffee  order  put  everything  out  of  my  mind. 
We  take  hot  milk  in  our  coffee  in  spite  of  the  ef- 
forts of  the  American  kitchens  to  force  us  into  us- 
ing only  cream. 

"  You  want  milk? "  the  waitress  repeats  after  I 
have  explained  it  all  to  her. 

"  Yes,  hot  milk." 

"Hot?" 

"  Please.    I  want  to  mix  them  together." 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

"  Half  and  half,"  going  toward  the  kitchen. 

Then  she  returns,  as  I  have  said,  with  a  full  cup 
of  black  coffee  and  a  full  cup  of  hot  milk.  I  sup- 
pose there  is  some  way  that  a  juggler  could  throw 
the  contents  of  both  cups  into  the  air,  and  catch 
half  of  each  ingredient  in  the  two  cups  as  the  flood 
descends.  But  I  have  never  been  good  at  tricks, 
and  would  probably  become  conscious  in  a  public 
dining  room  with  coffee  and  milk  flying  around  in 
the  air  and  all  the  guests  getting  under  the  tables. 
So  I  ask  for  a  third  cup,  an  empty  one,  and  while 
she  looks  at  me  as  though  I  had  an  unhappy  passion 
for  the  collecting  of  stone  china,  the  order  is  filled. 

W had  breakfasted  upstairs  under  the  pre- 
tence that  he  would  feed  Toby  his  wheat  cakes,  but 
really  that  he  might  concentrate  on  the  topographi- 
cal map  of  Gettysburg.  When  I  entered  he  had  a 
huge  one  spread  over  the  counterpane  and  he  was 
crying  aloud:  "  Here  is  the  hotel,  and  here  am  I 
facing  Chambersburg  Pike." 

I  laughed  then,  but  I  have  been  more  sympa- 
thetic within  the  last  three  hours.  Immediately 
after  breakfast  today  I  announced  violently  that  I 
was  going  to  consult  the  maps  and  write  of  Gettys- 
burg, and  no  one  was  to  ask  me  "  What's  for  din- 
ner? "  Since  then  I  have  called  in  to  the  Illustrator 
a  number  of  times,  the  last  announcement  to  the  ef- 
fect that  I  can't  get  the  thing  straight  unless  I  ob- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

serve  the  map  while  standing  on  my  head.  He  said 
if  I  would  lie  on  the  floor  and  hold  the  map  horizon- 
tally above  me  I  would  arrive  at  the  same  result  and 
not  attract  so  much  attention  if  any  one  dropped  in. 
You  see,  he  is  always  afraid  of  causing  talk. 

Packing  patient  Mr.  Sneed  in  with  us  we  drove 
through  the  town  toward  this  Pike  of  the  Illustra- 
tor's discovery  and  halting  on  a  beautiful  govern- 
ment road  placarded  with  Don'ts,  called  McPher- 
son's  Ridge,  our  guide  started  in  with  a  flow  of  sta- 
tistics that  set  our  brains  whirling.  We  could  only 
limp  along  behind  him,  a  few  words  to  the  rear,  as 
one  does  when  listening  to  a  language  foreign  to 
him.  You  could  see  our  poor  lips,  as  he  rolled  off 
Generals,  forming:  "Yankee  General — Confeder- 
ate General — Confederate  General — no,  no  Yan- 
kee," until  the  history  of  the  first  day's  battle  was 
over.  He  then  grasped  the  shallowness  of  our 
minds,  for,  after  the  pause  which  followed  his  really 
graphic  description,  a  small  voice  emanating  from 
me  asked,  "  And  where  were  you,  Mr.  Sneed?  "  He 
probably  classed  us  after  that  as  the  human  docu- 
ment type  and  told  us  whatever  we  wished  to  know, 
not  of  history,  but  of  his  own  boyhood  recollections. 
How  he  was  working  on  the  railroad — which  was 
quickly  put  out  of  commission — and  how  there  had 
been  a  feeling  in  the  air  for  days  that  something 
was  going  to  happen.  How  Early 's  men  had  come 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

marching  through  the  town  and  gone  raiding  on  to 
York  over  the  road  we  had  used.  Hill's  men  fol- 
lowed him,  demanding  clothing  and  food  of  the  un- 
easy Burgess.  How  Swell's  men  (they  had  been 
Stonewall  Jackson's  until  that  fine  soldier  was  shot 
at  Chancellorsville),  who  were  advancing  upon 
Harrisburg,  were  bewildered  by  a  sudden  call  to 
return;  and  "  Jeb  "  Stuart  came  on  the  third  day 
beating  his  exhausted  horses  from  Carlisle.  How 
all  of  the  roads  that  led  like  a  spider's  web  into  lit- 
tle Gettysburg  were  full  of  marching  soldiers. 
They  came  on  like  a  fog,  as  Richard  Harding 
Davis  said  of  the  Germans.  Yes,  grey  fog,  but  a 
ragged  fog,  footsore,  desperate,  ready  to  make 
what  was  almost  their  last  stand. 

It  is  supposed  that  Lee  in  provoking  the  fight  at 
Gettysburg,  believed  that  a  great  defeat  would  in- 
duce the  North  to  accept  peace  on  the  basis  of 
Southern  independence.  He  felt  that  the  North 
was  growing  tired  of  the  war,  and  he  had  beaten 
his  opponents  so  often  that  he  did  not  recognise 
they  had  failed  in  their  attack  from  bad  general- 
ship, not  bad  soldiery — all  of  this  gleaned,  of 
course,  from  the  S.  H.  of  the  U.  S. 

What  he  must  also  have  failed  to  foresee  was  the 
use  these  same  spider  webs  of  roads  could  be  put  to. 
For  in  turn  they  became  filled  with  the  blue  coats 
of  the  Yankees  and  they  came  from  every  point  of 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

the  compass,  clouds  and  clouds  and  clouds  of  blue, 
ninety-five  thousand  of  the  North  under  General 
Meade,  only  seventy  thousand  of  the  Confederate 
army.  And  the  loss  at  the  end  of  the  three  days 
was  equally  disproportionate,  for  the  toll  was 
twenty  thousand  four  hundred  and  fifty-one  Con- 
federates killed,  wounded,  and  captured,  to  twenty- 
three  thousand  and  thirteen  Federals.  A  number 
not  to  be  held  lightly  even  as  the  guns  of  Verdun 
belch  their  eternal  fires. 

Mr.  Sneed  having  finally  plumbed  our  minds, 
directed  the  chauffeur  over  an  old  covered  bridge 
which  figured  on  that  first  day's  fight,  telling  me  a 
charming  little  story  en  route  of  the  Confederate 
General  Gordon.  It  was  he  who  found  on  the 
ground  after  the  battle  the  Federal  General  Bar- 
low, quite  unattended  by  the  First  Aid  of  that  day. 
He  dismounted  and  asked  if  he  could  give  the 
wounded  man  any  help,  but  Barlow  replied  that  he 
was  done  for  and  only  wished  some  message  could 
be  sent  his  wife  who  was  beyond  the  Yankee  lines  at 
Howard's  Headquarters.  And  in  some  wonderful 
way  Gordon  managed  a  soldier  with  a  flag  of  truce 
who  brought  her  to  the  wounded  man.  The  nice 
part  of  it  is  he  didn't  die.  She  got  him  to  the  farm 
house  which  still  stands  beyond  the  covered  bridge, 
and  there  nursed  him  back  to  life.  Years  after  he 
met  General  Gordon  at  just  an  ordinary  party. 


ACROSS  MASON  AND  DIXON'S  LINE— CLAIRVAUX,  NEAR 
EMMITSBURG,  MARYLAND 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

And  the  Confederate  Veteran  asked  him  if  he  was 
related  to  the  General  who  had  died  at  Gettysburg, 
and — well — I  needn't  go  any  further. 

I  thought  we  were  being  driven  across  the  bridge 
to  see  this  house,  but  it  was  another  residence  which 
our  guide  picked  out.  "  That,"  said  he,  addressing 

the  chauffeur  and  W exclusively,  "  is  Plank's 

house." 

The  chauffeur  who  had  been  as  quiet  as  a  mouse 
as  we  swept  over  the  battlefields  bounced  at  him. 
"  Eddie's  house?  "  he  asked. 

"What!  Eddie  Plank!"  exclaimed  the  Illus- 
trator. 

I  felt  very  out  of  it.  But  I  questioned  the  Illus- 
trator and  he  told  me  to  be  sure  and  put  in  the  book 
that  General  Plank  commanded  a  brigade  on  the 
Union  right  during  the  fighting  at  Gulp's  Hill.  I 
did  try  to  put  it  in  the  book,  although  I  should  have 
been  warned  by  one  of  his  pitifully  obvious  winks 
directed  at  Mr.  Sneed,  but  my  publishers  upon  re- 
ceiving the  manuscript  sent  me  a  hurried  note  to 
the  effect  that  Eddie  Plank  was  star  pitcher  of  the 
Philadelphia  Athletics  when  they  won  the  World 
Championship.  So  this  paragraph  is  inserted  at 
the  very  last  moment,  and  I  think  a  joke  can  go  too 
far. 

We  passed  the  cottage  where  Jennie  Wade  was 
killed  by  a  stray  bullet  on  the  third  day  of  the  fight 

-J-59-e- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

for  neither  side  fired  upon  the  town  as  it  sheltered 
their  wounded.  She  has  a  monument  in  a  cemetery 

nearby.  "  With  the  courage  born  of  loyalty " 

the  inscription  reads.  I  am  glad  she  has  a  monu- 
ment for  women  have  few  enough  of  them,  but  Jen- 
nie Wade  was  not  out  ministering  to  the  wounded, 
or  working  for  her  country,  or  doing  anything  but 
walk  past  the  open  door  of  the  house  where  she  was 
visiting.  And  of  the  five  hundred  monuments 
erected  at  Gettysburg  to  commemorate  the  deeds 
of  those  intrepid  days,  I  fear  hers  is  the  only  one 
not  earned  by  the  honest  labouring  for  whatever 
cause  was  theirs. 

There  was  a  great  to-do  when  she  was  killed. 
Mr.  Sneed  told  me  of  it  while  the  Illustrator,  in- 
stead of  listening  to  the  story  of  the  second 
day's  battle  as  we  stood  on  Gulp's  Hill,  was 
making  a  sketch  of  the  hairpin  corner.  Mr. 
Sneed  didn't  mind  being  interrupted,  he  sim- 
ply went  on  as  far  as  he  could:  "  Now  Longstreet 
— coming  in  from  Chambersburg  Pike  on  the  night 
of  July  first — had  been  ordered  to  occupy  Little 
Round  Top.  But  he  did  not  respect  Lee's  com- 
mands  " 

"  Mr.  Sneed,  have  you  ever  noticed  what  a  lot  of 
disobeying  there  was? " 

And  that  is  what  amazes  us  both.  The  wars  of 
the  world  are  vast  records  of  discrediting  a  superior 

-e-60-*- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

officer,  of  delaying  when  orders  were  given  and  of 
failing  to  seize  the  opportunity  when  it  was  pre- 
sented. And  not  every  country  had  a  Lincoln 
whose  patient  efforts  were  ceaseless  to  keep  union 
among  his  Union  Generals.  No  wonder  he  an- 
swered when  some  clamoured  for  the  removal  of 
Grant:  "  I  can't  spare  this  man — he  fights." 

'  The  second  day  "  our  guide  leaped  in  "  ended 
after  furious  but  unsuccessful  assaults  upon  the 
flank  of  the  Yankees,  and  to  Gibbon,  who  had 
charge  of  the  Union  centre,  Meade  said,  '  They'll 
strike  at  you  tomorrow.'  And  all  night — they 
stopped  fighting  at  night  then — Meade  at  his  cabin 
planned  the  third  day's  battle,  while  Lee  in  his  lit- 
tle shanty — they  call  'em  picturesque  now  but  they 
must  have  been  hot — drew  up  his  splendid  moves. 
But  that  was  nothing,  the  folks  say  who  lived 
around  there,  '  that  the  lights  at  Headquarters 
burned  all  through  the  three  nights.' ' 

"  And  could  they  sleep  in  the  town,  Mr.  Sneed? " 

"  Mighty  little  sleep  for  anybody.  The  air  was 
full  of  smoke,  and  on  the  hills  you  could  see  lan- 
terns flashing  signals,  and  all  the  time  the  wounded 
were  being  brought  into  the  houses — Yanks  and 
Rebs  the  same." 

"  Did  your  people  have  some  of  them,  Mr. 
Sneed?" 

"  Sure.    We  had  eight;  one  big  fellow  died,  and 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

his  father  from  Georgia  came  and  took  him  home. 
All  of  'em  sent  little  presents  back  to  my  aunt.  The 
doctors  would  go  in  and  out  the  houses,  and  the 
men  would  cry  '  Don't  take  off  my  arm,'  but  they 
just  clapped  the  chloroform  over  their  faces  and 
went  at  it.  They  couldn't  take  any  chance  in  those 
days.  I  guess  there  wasn't  a  bed  in  Gettysburg 
that  didn't  have  a  soldier  in  it.  All  of  the  towns- 
folk when  they  could  rest,  would  sleep  on  the  grass. 
You  could  see  'em  in  the  yards  thick."  Then  Mr. 
Sneed  would  get  on  his  job  again:  "  Now  Sickles 
made  a  fine  defence,  and  Slocum's  second  corps 

"  and  he  would  go  on  with  his  wondrous  talk 

which  so  confused  me. 

I  know  if  I  were  to  blindfold  Mr.  Sneed  and,  af- 
ter driving  him  about  in  a  circle,  suddenly  remove 
the  bandage  from  his  eyes  and  force  him  to  stare 
at  the  government  road-bed  he  would  say:  "  Here 
Pickett's  and  Heth's  Divisions  deployed " 

But  he  could  well  speak  of  the  charge  of  Pickett 
and  Heth  on  that  third  day.  From  one  ridge,  down 
into  the  soft  curve  of  a  pasture,  up  a  steep  hill  fif- 
teen thousand  Southern  men  made  an  effort  to 
break  the  Union's  centre  stationed  on  the  opposing 
ridge.  What  cannon  fodder  they  were  for  those  in 
blue  from  the  height  above  them!  They  came  on 
like  a  plain — they  went  down  like  the  waves  of 
troubled  waters.  Many  were  so  terrific  and  persist- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

ent  in  their  charge  that  they  rushed  into  the  un- 
broken lines  of  the  Northerners  and  were  made 
prisoners.  Hancock,  who  commanded  the  Federal 
forces  at  this  point,  said  "  I  have  never  seen  a  more 
formidable  attack." 

"  That  was  about  the  end  of  the  three  days' 
struggle,"  concluded  our  guide  as  we  rounded  a 
turn  on  our  way  back,  passing  a  little  stone-encased 
well.  "  That's  Spangler's  Spring.  Both  the  Blue 
and  the  Grey  spent  the  night  of  July  filling  their 
canteens  one  by  one  from  that  run.  All  feeling 
seemed  to  die  with  sunset  in  those  days." 

W replied  that  it  was  so  in  the  present  war, 

that  he  was  last  year  in  the  trenches  (I  hope  you 
have  all  read  his  book) ,  and  I,  wishing  to  get  into 
it,  repeated  what  an  English  officer  had  told  me: 
''  Why  should  I  dislike  the  Germans?  I  don't  dis- 
like a  pheasant,  but  it  delights  me  to  see  it  fall." 

I  can't  say  that  Mr.  Sneed  was  very  deeply  inter- 
ested in  anything  that  had  to  do  with  the  present 
conflict.  There  was  but  one  war  to  him,  and  one 
battle  in  it — Gettysburg. 

We  drove  about  among  the  five  hundred  memo- 
rial shafts  and  the  one  thousand  tablets  which 
mark  the  battlefields  along  the  ridges  and  in  the 
plains.  Some  of  the  marbles  were  very  badly  exe- 
cuted. But  the  general  effect  was  stupefying,  and 
there  was  no  scribbling  of  names  upon  the  surfaces 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

as  I  have  seen  on  many  a  foreign  memorial.  W 

was  very  much  touched  over  his  Minnesota  regi- 
ment that  lost  eighty  per  cent  of  its  men,  and  I 
found  a  tablet  to  the  27th  Indiana  whose  colours 
never  fell  to  the  ground,  though  it  cost  many  a  good 
man.  What  a  waste  of  soldiers  by  this  drawing  of 
the  enemy's  fire !  Today's  warfare  is  more  economic 
in  the  avoidance  of  their  flags. 

So  far  as  I  know  but  one  monument  has  been 
placed  on  the  grounds  by  the  Confederates,  while 
one  of  General  Lee  will  be  shortly  unveiled.  "  But 
they'll  begin  soon,"  said  Mr.  Sneed  cheerily, 
"  they're  getting  on  their  feet." 

One  may  observe  that  the  name  of  Mr.  Sneed  has 
been  frequently  repeated  in  these  few  inadequate 
remarks  anent  a  really  great  experience.  But  it  is 
not  employed  in  the  script  with  the  frequency  that 
it  was  sounded  upon  my  lips.  This  was  because  I 
was  sure  of  the  name,  and  I  am  so  seldom  sure.  As 
a  rule  I  address  a  strange  companion  at  dinner  with 
a  sort  of  hurried  introduction  of  all  the  vowels  and 
as  many  of  the  consonants  as  I  can  get  in,  hoping 
in  this  way  to  make  a  sound  something  like  the  poor 
man's  rightful  appellation.  It  is  the  same  with 
faces,  especially,  I  am  happy  to  say,  with  the  faces 
of  men.  I  can  have  a  very  good  time  with  a  face 
new  to  me  and  go  away  with  every  lineament 
sponged  from  my  memory.  I  can  remember  them 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

better  if  they  are  scarred,  or  have  a  birth  mark  or  a 
hare  lip,  and  one  very  delightful  creature  who 
knows  my  weakness  always  takes  a  few  steps  when 
I  enter  a  room  as  he  has  a  distinguishing  limp. 

I  suppose  this  is  the  only  way  of  my  "  getting 
back."  I  have  spent  my  life  explaining  myself  to 
people.  And  I  do  really  think  we  should  have  less 
vanity  about  ourselves.  Instead  of  saying  "  You 
don't  know  me?"  with  arch  looks  upon  greeting 
some  mystified  acquaintance  I  think  we  should  obli- 
gingly hoot  out  our  names  as  we  enter  a  drawing 
room.  It  is  as  bad  over  the  telephone.  Cousins 
whom  we  have  not  heard  of  for  years,  much  less 
talked  to,  find  us  in  the  telephone  book  and  expect 
us  to  guess  who  they  are  by  the  sound  of  their 
voices. 

It  was  the  Illustrator  who  told  me  in  the  last 
chapter  that  the  guide's  name  was  Sneed,  and  I 
don't  know  why  he  waited  until  I  had  triumphantly 
mouthed  it  a  hundred  times  before  he  asked  why  I 
was  calling  a  man  Sneed  when  his  name  was 
Sheads.  I  ask  any  one — is  that  fair?  He  says,  at 
this  point,  that  I  am  giving  more  time  to  the  sub- 
ject than  is  necessary  but  I  feel  if  I  explain  this  all 
carefully,  you  who  visit  Gettysburg  in  the  future 
may,  out  of  kindness  to  me,  atone  for  my  unhappy 
misunderstanding. 

But  don't,  I  beg  of  you,  ask  how  Toby  behaved 
-J-65-+- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

on  the  battlefields,  or  how  he  chased  a  cotton  tail 
rabbit  in  the  Devil's  Den,  a  procedure  which  was 
largely  among  the  official  Don'ts.  It  is  not  through 
shame  but  from  fear  of  a  summons  that  we  wish 
the  rabbit  episode  kept  dark.  A  photographer  sta- 
tions himself  in  this  rocky  cairn,  and  visiting  parties 
have  postal  cards  made  of  themselves  standing 
where  the  dead  were  once  piled  thick.  And  I  think 
that  is  just  as  bad  taste  as  chasing  a  cotton  tail. 

We  left  Gettysburg  by  the  Emmitsburg  Road, 
past  the  Peach  Orchard,  the  Wheatfield  and  on 
through  fields  of  grain.  I  could  not  understand 
on  that  first  day  of  battlefields,  why  these  simple 
names  that  had  to  do  with  farm  lands  were  so  much 
more  dramatic  in  their  titles  than  the  Valley  of 
Death,  the  Bloody  Angle  or  the  Slaughter  Pen 
— but  I  arrived  at  something  like  a  conclusion 
later,  which  is  pretty  far  for  me  to  go. 

W asked  me  if  I  thought  I  could  do  justice 

to  the  scene,  and  the  point  is  I  haven't  tried.  It 
has  been  well  done  by  the  able  ones.  It  was  Lin- 
coln, with  his  exquisite  modesty  who  said: 

'  The  world  will  little  note,  nor  long  remember 
what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they 
did  here." 

A  few  miles  along  the  Emmitsburg  Road  W 

shouted,  "  There  it  is,"  and  he  fell  out  the 
car  to  photograph  a  very  inconsequential  sign  con- 

-j-66-e- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

sidering  the  trouble  it  has  caused,  marking  the 
Mason  and  Dixon  Line.  I  don't  suppose  either 
Mason  or  Dixon  ever  thought  when  they  engineered 
this  strip  marking  the  division  between  the  North 
and  the  South,  that  they  should  form  a  combination 
stronger  than  any  dance  team  known  to  Broadway. 
But  its  yellow  paint  and  black  lettering  stood  for 
the  soft  warm  things  of  life.  It  spoke  of  jasmine 
and  mocking  birds,  turbaned  slaves,  old  mahogany, 
low  bows  and  ruffled  shirt  fronts.  I  might  not  find 
any  of  these  old  time  sweetnesses  while  travelling  in 
haphazard  fashion  through  the  country,  but  one 
may  take  away  all  this  from  the  South  and  its  choic- 
est possession  remains.  The  first  words  I  ever  re- 
member an  old  coloured  woman  saying — and  we 
had  some  of  the  old  ones  in  Indiana — were  "  Man- 
ners, child,  manners."  And  in  this  day  when  a  great 
and  efficient  nation  finds  itself  out  of  favour  with 
the  world  from  its  lack  of  the  graces,  we  cannot  un- 
derestimate the  power  of  courtesy. 

W began  singing,  "  Maryland,  My  Mary- 
land," which  is  anybody's  privilege  who  knows  the 
tune,  but  was  particularly  stirring  to  him  as  we 
were  on  our  way  to  "  Uncle  Charlie's."  When  the 
Illustrator  is  in  New  England  he  belongs  to  his 
father's  rock-ribbed  race,  and  upon  approaching 
the  South  he  goes  over  to  his  mother's  people.  I 
would  not  say  he  chose  this  route  that  he  might  visit 

H-67H- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

the  old  homes  of  his  kin,  but  he  had  talked  a  good 
deal  about  Emmitsburg  and  kept  hoping  I  would 
have  room  to  "  get  in  it." 

One  could  put  it  in  a  pint  cup,  but  it  would  take 
several  pages  to  describe  our  satisfaction  with  our 
first  sleepy  old  Southern  town  which  looked  exactly 
as  I  wanted  it  to  look.  With  supreme  confidence 
that  some  one  would  know  at  the  hotel  just  where 

to  find  "  Uncle  Charlie's,"  W went  up  the 

raggedy  old  steps  and  came  down  shortly  after- 
wards with  a  perfect  Southern  gentleman,  soft  ac- 
cent and  all,  who  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand, 
although  the  Uncle  Charlie,  whom  I  had  never  seen, 
moved  away  from  there  thirty  years  ago. 

I  could  hardly  keep  the  tears  from  my  eyes  for  I 
felt  that  everything  in  the  South  was  going  to  be 
exactly  as  I  had  expected,  and  strangely  enough, 
it  turned  out  to  be  so.  Even  the  trees  were  further 
out  than  they  were  across  the  line,  and  a  perfectly 
good  buzzard  flew  over  our  heads  to  set  all  doubts 
at  rest  as  to  our  locality.  As  the  Illustrator  re- 
marked, buzzards  are  the  most  exclusive  of  all 
Southerners.  They  never  go  beyond  the  Mason 
and  Dixon  Line,  yet  they  begin  promptly  on  the 
other  side. 

We  turned  off  the  highway  to  go  to  "  Uncle 
Charlie's,"  following  an  avenue  of  huge  pear  trees 
out  for  Easter  that  must  have  been  centuries  old. 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

It  was  good  enough  for  the  approach  to  Elsie  Dins- 
more's  house  and  I  feared  I  was  going  to  discover 
something  better  than  hers  right  at  the  start.  For- 
tunately, for  I  did  not  wish  to  find  my  quest  so  eas- 
ily, the  house  on  the  estate — San  Marino  it  is  called 
— had  too  many  gables  for  Elsie  who,  I  feel,  lived 
in  a  mansion  with  a  flatter  roof.  There  were  pic- 
turesque quarters  for  the  house  slaves,  though,  and 
a  block  where  they  were  sold.  There  were  daffodils 
growing  in  the  lawn  encircling  the  homestead,  and 
there  was  a  host  much  more  cordial  to  strangers 
than  Elsie  Dinsmore's  stern  father  would  ever  have 
been. 

W ,  who  was  now  speaking  with  a  strong 

Southern  accent,  had  no  fear  of  intruding,  and  the 
host  accepted  us  as  though  strangers  from  New 
York  motoring  suddenly  over  his  daffodils  were  do- 
ing him  an  honour  when  they  awoke  him  from  his 
afternoon  nap. 

We  let  the  nephew  of  Uncle  Charlie  mooch  about 
by  himself  for  he  wanted  to  see  where  the  old  lake 
had  been.  He  once  told  me  that  there  had  been  a 
boat  on  the  lake  which  ran  by  winding  a  clock,  and 
he  thought  as  a  boy  that  it  was  the  most  wonderful 
mechanism  in  the  world.  I  remember  (this  is  ir- 
revelant  so  one  may  skip  it)  his  expatiating  upon 
this  clock  boat  while  a  sweet  little  old  seamstress 
was  in  the  room  trying  to  "  make  me  style,"  as  she 

-+•  69  -*~ 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

expresses  it.  And  she  joined  into  the  conversation 
to  a  mild  extent.  She  said  she  was  no  inventor — • 
she  had  never  had  time — but  she  still  believed  that 
an  automobile  could  be  propelled  without  gasoline 
or  electricity  by  using  clock  work.  If  you  can 
make  a  boat  go,  she  argued,  why  not  an  automo- 
bile? And,  indeed,  I  don't  know  why  not,  except 
that  it  would  be  very  embarrassing  to  run  down  at 
Fifth  Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street  when  the 
green  sign  told  you  to  "  Go — go,"  because  you  had 
forgotten  to  wind  the  clock  the  night  before. 

The  Illustrator  was  courteous  but  did  not  en- 
courage her  to  abandon  "  making  me  style  "  for 
higher  endeavours.  And  she  may  have  put  that 
down  as  professional  jealousy  for  she  herself  had 
painted  pictures  in  her  younger  days  specialising, 
she  told  me,  on  flowers  and  cats. 

The  gentle  land  owner  of  San  Marino  patted  a 
beautiful  collie  which  looked  indulgently  at  Toby 
growling  like  distant  thunder — a  storm  that  never 
breaks — and  told  me  of  his  longing  as  a  boy  to  live 
at  San  Marino.  How  he  had  gone  West,  made 
"  not  a  heap  but  a  little  money,"  enough  to  buy 
the  place  when  Uncle  Charlie  wanted  to  go  away, 
and  how  it  was  understood  by  all  the  girls  and 
boys  and  grandchildren  of  Uncle  Charlie  that  they 
were  to  come  back  for  their  honeymoons.  He 
didn't  have  any  children  of  his  own  but  he  had 

-+70-*- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

adopted  two  little  fellows  who  had  grown  up  to  be 
splendid  men  and,  thus  encouraged,  he  and  his 
wife  were  out  seeking  for  little  girls.  I  was 
strongly  tempted  to  tell  him  that  I  had  adopted 
several  children,  just  because  my  sister  has  one, 
and  it  speaks  well  for  the  truth  pervading  the  at- 
mosphere about  the  dear  gentleman  that  I  couldn't 
choke  out  a  baby. 

Was  it  not  an  agreeable  entrance  into  the 
South!  For  the  success  of  this  man  was  em- 
blematic of  the  spirit  of  these  states.  The  farm 
which  would  not  prosper  under  the  old  method  of 
cultivation  was  now  richly  producing,  and  the 
chalk  quarries  which  the  master  of  the  old  regime 
had  been  indifferent  to  were  yielding  automobiles, 
porcelain  tubs,  and  other  luxuries  of  this  day. 

Stung  by  the  social  bee  we  could  not  stop  visit- 
ing, but  halted  at  the  next  estate  on  the  flimsy  ex- 
cuse of  admiring  the  architecture.  We  had  been 
assured  of  a  welcome  by  his  neighbour  with  that 
hospitality-once-removed  which  our  friends  in  New 
York  had  offered  us.  We  were  rather  surprised 
to  find  our  friends  so  right. 

A  black  dog  did  not  care  for  us  but  a  white 
gentleman  of  evident  discernment  restrained  him, 
and  he  loped  over  the  fields  to  eat  up  a  distant 
scare-crow.  He  was  a  plain  Virginia  hound  and 
not  the  French  police  dog  that  fitted  best  into  the 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

architecture  of  the  house.  One  expects  to  plunge 
immediately  into  ante-bellum  mansions  of  Greek 
design  even  on  the  fringes  of  the  South,  and  this 
chateau  of  many  gables  like  an  old  French  picture 
of  fourteenth  century  Gothic  piqued  our  interest. 

Our  perfectly  new  host  led  us  into  the  house  and 
we  sat  down  in  a  room  where  we  were  told  a  ghost 
spent  many  a  quiet  evening  in  company  with  the 
present  family.  The  ghost  is  the  refugee  who 
came  out  at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution, 
built  the  house  after  the  fashion  of  his  old  manor 
near  Clairvaux,  named  it  after  the  town  and  lived 
to  an  extraordinarily  old  age,  dropping  dead  about 
where  I  was  sitting. 

"  I  really  don't  know  why  he  should  be  dissatis- 
fied," said  the  gentleman  whom  we  were  outrage- 
ously visiting.  "  He  had  a  very  decent  time  of  it. 
This  is  a  great  Catholic  community  and  customs 
went  on  about  as  they  did  in  France.  They  stop 
work  and  say  the  Angelus  around  here  still. 
You  must  have  noticed  the  Catholic  schools  as 
you  came  along.  There  are  bishops  and  nuns 
buried  in  the  church-yard,  and  every  darky  of  the 
vicinity  believes  that  they  sit  up  in  their  graves  on 
All  Souls'  Day  and  chant  the  Miserere." 

"  Do  you  see  the  ghost?  "  I  asked,  hoping  he  did 
and  hoping  he  didn't. 

"  No,  our  old  black  man  sees  him,  but  I  can 


THE  OLD  MILL  OX  CARROLL  CREEK,  FREDERICK 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

often  hear  him  sitting  down  and  getting  up — he 
creaks  a  bit.  I  have  placed  that  chair  for  him — 
the  one  you're  in." 

I  got  up — because  it  was  time  to  get  up — the 
Illustrator  would  have  stayed  forever,  and  I  went 
out  looking  backwards  at  some  darling  old  chairs 
whose  legs  sloped  fore  and  aft,  a  model  we  found 
only  in  this  neighbourhood.  We  walked  toward 

the  car  after  W had  finished  his  sketch,  trying 

not  to  step  on  the  blue  periwinkles  (do  peri- 
winkles sound  like  fish  to  any  one  else?)  and  in 
parting  I  went  back  to  the  ghost  subject  wonder- 
ing if  the  old  Marquis  could  be  unhappy  over  the 
present  owner's  sympathies  in  the  war.  Strange 
how  we  cannot  get  away  from  this  great  fight! 
But  our  host  was  as  French  in  his  leanings  as  the 

gables  of  his  house.     W suggested  that  it 

might  be  the  method  of  warfare  that  disturbed  the 
old  fellow. 

'  That  may  be  it,"  assented  the  Chatelain  casu- 
ally. He  was  not  tempestuous.  He  came  from 
the  newspaper  world  and,  having  created  sensa- 
tions, knew  their  emptiness.  '  You  saw  Gettys- 
burg— that  was  the  warfare  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion— '  up  to  date  '  they  might  have  said.  But  this 
of  today  is  a  return  to  the  Middle  Ages.  The 
liquid  fire  in  present  usage  is  the  molten  lead  of 
that  earlier  period.  The  Arab  at  the  front  is 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

right.  Let  them  fight  man  to  man,  and  it  would 
soon  be  over." 

The  Illustrator  and  I  agreed  when  we  were  on 
our  way  that  we  would  not  stop  anywhere  else 
even  if  we  were  asked  to  supper.  And  we  only  did 
stop  once  to  photograph  a  very  good  old  house. 
We  did  not  enter  the  gates,  although  with  very 
cordial  intention  a  cornetist  somewhere  within  was 
blowing  to  us:  "  Whosoever  will  may  come." 

A  sort  of  panic  crept  over  me.  I  remembered 
what  we  suffered  at  home  when  it  seemed  that  my 
older  sister  might  marry  a  young  man  who  always 
brought  his  cornet  when  he  came  to  call.  He 
would  play  all  Sunday  evening  to  her  accompani- 
ment, "  Oh,  Fair  Dove,  Oh,  Fond  Dove."  My 
mother  and  I  would  walk  up  to  the  corner  and  pre- 
tend we  didn't  know  where  the  noise  came  from 
when  the  neighbours  protested.  He  was  a  very  re- 
ligious young  man,  and,  I  believe,  tooted  his  way 
into  heaven  some  time  ago. 

The  only  thing  that  surprised  us  about  the  day 
was  the  magnificence  of  the  road,  and  this  but 
added  to  our  cup  of  happiness.  Every  one  was  en- 
joying it,  including  small  cars  with  the  top  up 
although  the  sun  was  shining.  We  dared  not  look 
at  them  for  fear  of  embarrassing  the  young  cou- 
ples within.  I  besought  our  driver  to  give  them 
the  road,  for  the  young  chauffeurs  made  no  effort 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

to  guide  their  vehicles  save  by  the  feet.  There  was 
no  attempt  at  speed,  they  just  jogged  along  as 
had  their  ancestors  when  wooing,  and  I  am  sure 
if  they  had  occasion  to  stop  they  would  instinc- 
tively cry  "  Whoa! " 

There  were  barefooted  children,  log  cabins,  vio- 
lets at  Thurmont,  and  "  Miss  Birdie  Gilbert — 
Milliner "  at  Lewiston.  There  wasn't  a  hat  in 
her  window,  however,  and  they  must  have  all  been 
on  the  heads  of  the  young  ladies  in  the  small  cars 
which  were  being  run  by  the  feet.  I  hope  Miss 
Birdie  did  not  go  into  the  country  on  an  Easter 
walk  and  see  the  angle  at  which  her  offspring  were 
being  worn.  It  would  be  enough  to  crush  the  soul 
of  any  millinery  artist. 

And  so,  frivolously,  we  came  to  Frederick 
— the  Frederick  of  clean  streets,  fine  houses,  a 
dashing  stream,  and  Barbara  Fritchie.  I  never 
thought  in  my  young  days  (when,  magnificently 
impersonating  Mrs.  Fritchie,  I  attacked  Stone- 
wall Jackson  so  hard  that  one  small  boy  burst  into 
screams)  that  I  should  ever  discredit  the  story  of 
Barbara.  I  never  thought  when  a  girl  that  I 
should  ever  go  to  Frederick  at  all. 

What  are  the  early  dreams  of  youth  made  of? 
I  cannot  remember.  Certainly  wide  travelling 
was  not  among  my  ambitions  nor  within  my  under- 
standing. I  fear  that  I  went  to  sleep  and  woke 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

up  with  the  sound  of  applause  in  my  ears,  the  ap- 
plause of  a  distant  day.  And  while  there  hasn't 
been  much  of  that  in  my  life,  I  believe,  after  all, 
that  the  Business  has  been  better  than  the  Dream. 
With  all  the  pain  of  existence  I  believe  that  every 
one  will  find  more  in  the  conflict  than  the  con- 
quest. And  the  conflict  will  never  desert  you — 
not  even  in  Frederick. 

The  young  clerk  at  the  desk  of  the  pleasant  City 
Hotel  was  very  dubious  about  giving  us  two  rooms 
after  he  had  read  our  names.  I  didn't  know  why 

until  W went  down  to  protest  against  the  two 

walled  up  interiors  which  were  apportioned  us.  The 
clerk  was  frank  with  the  Illustrator.  He  said  when 
married  couples  came  to  the  hotel  in  the  busy  sea- 
son he  could  allow  them  but  one  room. 

"  Yes,  but  if  they  are  willing  to  pay  more," 
queried  W weakly. 

"  No,"  from  the  young  man  who  was  an  up- 
holder of  Jeffersonian  simplicity,  "  one  is  enough." 

As  he  was  a  very  agreeable  Frederickian,  one 
need  not  put  down  his  ideas  on  deportment  as  the 
old  trick  of  the  American  hotel  keeper  in  the  small 
town.  It  is  not  unfamiliar  to  the  strolling  actor 
who  takes  his  wife  about  with  him.  In  many  cases 
the  same  price  is  charged  for  two  in  one  room  as 
for  two  in  two  rooms.  The  eyes  of  the  clerks 
gleam  when  they  read  the  guilty  man's  admission 

-j-76-1- 


I  SING  OF  ARMS— THEN  MARYLAND 

that  he  has  a  wife.  They  go  into  one  room — or 
they  sleep  in  the  "  Op'ry  House."  And  I  have 
known  of  tired  husbands  and  wives  after  weeks  of 
one  night  stands,  approach  the  desk  as  individuals, 
register  under  separate  names,  and  staring  at  each 
other  as  though  strangers,  secure  a  glad  respite 
from  a  common  tooth  mug. 

W appreciated  that  there  lay  before  him  a 

tussle  between  the  flesh  and  the  spirit,  with  the 
good  young  clerk — curiously  enough — on  the  side 
of  the  flesh.  "  I  suppose,"  he  said,  glaring  morally 
at  the  dispenser  of  keys,  "  you  would  like  to  have 
us  register  as  did  this  secretive  gentleman." 

He  pointed  to  the  line  above  our  names.  "  Mr. 
Black  and  friend,"  was  the  simple  admission. 

'  They  have  come  for  dinner,"  cried  the  young 
man  in  a  shocked  panic — striking  the  bell  for  the 
boy.  It  was  improper  enough  to  have  a  married 
couple  in  two  rooms,  but  the  expounding  of  Brieux 
ethics  at  his  hotel  desk — No!  "  Shoot  if  you  must 
this  old  grey  head  but " 

"  Front!    Show  the  gentleman  into  41  and  42." 


77 


CHAPTER  V 

In  Which  a  Fine  Old  Story  is  Exploded  but  We 
Offer  as  Good  a  One  by  a  Dear  Old  Lady 

SOME  one  will  write  me  a  letter  to  say  Maryland 
is  not  South,  that  it  never  seceded  from  the  Union, 
many  of  the  natives  did  not  believe  in  slavery,  and 
most  of  the  men  fought  for  the  North.  But  I  say 
that  there  was  a  buzzard  after  the  Mason  and 
Dixon  Line,  a  Southern  accent  at  Emmitsburg,  a 
hospitality  at  "  Uncle  Charlie's,"  and  coloured 
waiters  at  Frederick.  More  than  this  I  have  de- 
layed long  enough  writing  of  the  Old  Dominion, 
and  it  begins  "  right  hyar." 

It  began  with  me  by  a  feeling  of  languor  and  a 
disinclination  to  leave  my  warm  room  (wrested 
from  the  disapproving  clerk)  which  looked  out 
upon  a  pretty  little  court.  I  could  see  into  the 
clean  kitchens  opposite  and  watch  the  waiters  pass- 
ing into  the  dining  room  swaying  along  as  only 
blacks  can  sway,  with  their  loaded  trays  high  up 
on  the  palm  of  the  right  hand,  swooping  around 
each  other  and  never  colliding.  I  wondered  how 
a  left-handed  waiter  would  get  along  in  the  pro- 

-J-78-e- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

cession.  And  I  am  very  sorry  that  such  a  thing 
came  into  my  head,  for  it  is  not  important,  and  I 
have  been  looking  for  left-handed  waiters  ever 
since  when  I  should  be  attending  to  exports  and 
imports,  or  what  is  indigenous  to  the  soil. 

Through  the  dining-room  windows  I  could  see 
Easter  hyacinths  upon  the  tables  where  were 
seated  many  guests.  I  fancied  they  were  Fred- 
erickians  who  had  given  their  maids  a  night  off,  a 
pleasant  innovation  from  the  old  "  go  out  in 
the  pantry  and  get  a  bite  if  you're  hungry " 
arrangement  for  Sunday  supper.  A  hum  of 
voices  reached  me.  It  had  a  very  easy  sound. 
There  was  none  of  the  restraint  of  the  Northern 
hotel  which  one  finds  so  depressing.  They  were 
having  a  good  time  and  weren't  ashamed  to  show 
it.  There  is  no  muzzle  to  spontaneity  in  the  South. 
I  think  they  are  more  like  the  French  than  any 
other  people. 

And  the  women  are  like  Frenchwomen.  One 
doubts  if  they  have  the  executive  ability  of  the 
Gallic  woman,  but  then  no  other  race  posseses 
that.  I  can  remember  the  impoverished  Southern 
ladies  who  came  up  North  to  visit  us  when  I  was 
a  little  girl,  and  that  oft-repeated  phrase  "  Befo' 
the  wah  I  nevah  buttoned  mah  shoes."  They 
probably  didn't,  but  "  the  thing  is  "  as  my  friend 
M.  W.  P.  says,  they  did  button  them  when  they 

-e-79-J- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

had  to.  With  the  denial  which  the  "  frivolous  " 
Frenchwoman  is  showing  now,  the  "  frivolous " 
Southerner  did  without  servants  to  button  shoes — 
and  shoes — and,  as  time  went  on,  buttons.  In  the 
terrible  days  of  reconstruction  when  a  Lincoln 
was  so  needed,  they  continued  to  permit  them- 
selves no  luxuries  beyond  the  luxury  of  talking  of 
the  past.  Even  to  their  own  undoing  they  held  to 
a  fierce  partisanship  which  rendered  a  meal  a  mere 
fashion  to  be  done  away  with  like  an  extra  flounce 
on  a  gown. 

When  I  was  about  ten  we  had  a  young  teacher 
in  the  ward  schools  who  came  up  from  the  South. 
That  was  quite  a  while  after  the  war,  but  the  feel- 
ing was  still  intense.  It  was  Gertie  Mossier  (of 
curly  hair  which  I  no  longer  envy),  who  threw  a 
note  into  my  lap  apprising  me  that  "  teacher  was 
a  Rebel."  Hot  with  the  bitterness  of  which  I 
knew  nothing  but  whose  wings  were  still  beating 
in  the  air,  I  wrote  back  that  if  a  Rebel,  I  hated 
her.  And  this,  possibly  through  the  treachery  of 
Gertie  Mossier,  reached  teacher's  ears. 

She  had  me  up  after  the  others  had  gone  to  ask 
me  if  had  written  thus  rudely  of  an  instructress. 
I  had  not  developed  my  gentle  art  of  lying  to  its 
present  perfection  and  I  admitted  the  uncompli- 
mentary things,  instinctively  sure  if  it  came  to  an 
issue  that  I  would  be  upheld  by  the  community. 

-f-80-J- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

I  recall  the  fine  flush  that  reddened  her  sallow 
skin.  I  could  see  the  colour  in  her  scalp  through 
her  thin  blond  hair. 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  Rebel,"  she  replied,  not  to  me  but 
looking  far  over  the  desks  of  the  ugly  school  room, 
"  and  I'm  proud  I  am  a  Rebel.  I  wouldn't  be  this 
scum " 

She  pressed  her  lips  together  and  did  not  con- 
tinue, but  she  did  not  retract  her  dangerous  cry 
nor  ask  me  not  to  repeat  it.  I  don't  know  how  I  got 
out  of  the  room.  With  the  instinct  that  assured 
me  I  would  be  upheld  in  hating  her,  I  knew,  too, 
that  teacher's  job  was  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand. 
For  some  reason  I  never  told  any  one — this  is  the 
first  time  I  have  ever  spoken  of  it — so  you  see  the 
confidence  I  have  in  the  gentle  reader.  She  used 
to  watch  me  curiously,  wondering,  no  doubt,  when 
I  would  speak.  She  was  pretty  brave,  wasn't  she, 
for  it  wasn't  easy  for  a  girl  to  "  speak  out "  with 
starvation  staring  her  in  the  face. 

Of  course,  if  she  had  gone  to  my  dear  Lincoln 
— or  had  him  to  go  to — well,  that's  finished! 
Among  my  aunt's  leaflets  which  were  in  the  travel- 
ling khaki  laundry  bookcase  was  a  little  story  of 
one  of  her  kin,  Miss  Ann  Elizabeth  Summers,  who 
was  probably  called  Miss  Ann  Elizabeth.  She 
had  left  Virginia  on  a  visit  before  the  state  seceded, 
and  as  martial  law  was  declared  she  found  herself 

H-81-fr- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

in  Washington  without  funds  or  home.  She  grew 
desperate,  and  was  advised  by  a  friend  to  apply  to 
the  Treasury,  "  for  they  were  hiring  women  until 
the  trouble  blew  over." 

She  was  not  encouraged  when  she  made  her  ap- 
plication, the  man  in  charge  of  appointments,  un- 
sympathetic to  Southerners,  telling  her  in  jest  that 
she  would  have  to  see  the  President  for  such  an 
important  position.  She  took  him  at  his  word  and 
waited  at  the  White  House  next  day  from  eleven 
in  the  morning  until  the  sun  was  setting.  And 
when  she  was  ushered  into  his  presence  the  best 
she  had  to  say  for  herself  was :  "  Mr.  Lincoln,  you 
may  not  want  to  talk  with  me  for  I  am  a  Rebel 
from  Virginia  and  cannot  get  home — but  I  need 
work." 

And  after  a  little  while  the  President  sent  Ann 
Elizabeth  off  with  a  note  which  read : 

"  Secretary  of  Treasury, 

Please  give  Miss  A.  E.  Summers  a  position  in 
your  Department. 

A.  LINCOLN." 

As  he  handed  it  to  her  he  said :  "  Miss  Sum- 
mers, this  is  as  much  as  I  have  done  for  any  one." 

And,  do  you  know,  she  kept  the  job.  She  kept 
it  for  thirty-five  years  and  retired  on  a  pension. 

-»-82-e- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

And  I  don't  know  whether  the  moral  is  to  wait,  or, 
in  distress,  to  pray  for  a  Lincoln,  or  just  to  be  a 
Southern  woman. 

I  have  wandered  far  afield  again,  but  the  roads 
in  Maryland  are  so  good  that  it  is  no  trouble  at  all 
to  run  back  from  Washington  to  Frederick.  And 
Miss  Ann  Elizabeth  hasn't  changed  much  from  the 
women  having  supper  at  the  City  Hotel. 

Indeed,  I  became  very  mid- Victorian  watching 
the  waiters,  and  trying  to  be  annoyed  because 

W and  Toby   (who  was  out  attacking  iron 

dogs  on  elegant  steps)  did  not  return.  I  had  no 
doubt  but  that  we  were  going  into  the  Old  Do- 
minion after  the  most  topsy-turvy  fashion.  We 
should  have  begun  at  Jamestown  where  the  first 
English  settlers  endured,  and  worked  our  way 
through  the  earlier  battles  of  the  Civil  War  to  Get- 
tysburg. The  Illustrator  had  not  planned  it  that 
way,  doubtless  in  his  anxiety  to  reach  "  Uncle 
Charlie's,"  but  ostensibly  to  let  me  see  the  Virginia 
mountains  in  the  first  flush  of  Spring.  Perhaps  it 
is  just  as  well  to  progress  backward  slowly  (if  you 
understand  me) .  I  was  already  fitting  myself  into 

the  mid- Victorian  period  with  W in  a  nice 

black  stock,  but  I  could  not  jump  him  so  quickly 
into  the  long  curly  locks  of  the  Jamestown 
regime. 

It  was  all  very  sweetly  old-fashioned  this  Easter 
-J-83-J- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

night,  and  old  songs  like  "  Nita,  Juanita,"  came  into 
my  mind,  and  "  Genevieve,  Sweet  Genevieve," 
which  my  mother  used  to  sing.  I  remember  her  very 
softly  picking  them  out  on  the  piano  at  the  old 
Palmer  House  in  Chicago,  when  we  went  there  to 
see  the  world,  and  my  looking  about  hoping  that 
some  one  was  admiring  us.  I  touched  the  pale 
blue  satin  furniture  with  awe,  and  heard  stories  of 
the  real  silver  dollars  in  the  floor  of  that  part  of 
the  building  where  low  men  drank  liquor.  We 
had  been  out  on  a  shopping  expedition  that  morn- 
ing and  she  had  looked  at  plaid  cloth  for  my  new 
pelisse  (it  was  a  revival  of  the  pelisse  I  want  one 
to  know) .  She  could  not  decide  for  the  cost  was 
terrifying  to  her,  and  she  finally  said  with  that  as- 
sumption of  ease  which  deceives  no  one: 

"  I  fear  it  is  too  dark  for  my  little  girl." 

Then  the  city  clerk  exclaimed  aloud,  but  en- 
deavoured to  conceal  his  exclamation,  uttering: 
"  Is  it  possible  that  this  little  girl  is  not  your  sister, 
ma'am? " 

"  I  think  I'll  take  that  goods,"  replied  my  pretty 
mother. 

Telling  these  things  is  the  best  description  I  can 
give  of  Frederick — which  is  no  description  at  all — 
but  the  sensation  continued  throughout  the  next 
busy  morning.  The  day  began  with  a  large  grey 
cat  jumping  on  Toby  in  the  most  inhospitable 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

fashion  as  we  passed  through  the  lobby  to  go  dis- 
covering. Several  old  ladies  who  were  in  the  of- 
fice— refined  village  loungers — gathered  up  their 
skirts  and  screamed,  while  the  coloured  bell  boys 
enjoying  themselves  to  the  limit,  made  tardy  ef- 
forts to  remove  her  claws  from  Toby's  inviting 
long  hair. 

He  was  very  much  astonished,  for  he  assured  me 
that  he  had  not  invited  the  attack,  but  he  had  prob- 
ably grown  a  little  too  cocky  from  his  success  with 
the  iron  dogs  of  the  night  before.  He  trotted  along 
with  us  when  we  gained  free  air,  saying,  every  now 
and  then,  "  Wasn't  doin'  no  harm,  Louise,"  having 
already  soaked  up  a  negro  accent.  One  may  have 
noticed  a  certain  inelegance  in  our  aristocratic  ter- 
rier's speech  even  before  he  embraced  this  new  dia- 
lect. It  comes,  we  think,  from  his  devotion  to  the 
funny  pictures  of  Briggs,  Fontaine  Fox,  Out- 
cault  and  such  artists  as  have  introduced  dear, 
talking  dogs  to  the  public.  I  know  if  he  were  to 
confess  his  highest  ambition  it  would  not  be 
"  Champion  West  Highland  Terrier  Toby,"  (and 
get  into  "Vogue")  but  one  of  those  long-eared 
canines  who  go  around  with  the  fellers  and  have 
such  a  good  time  laughing. 

I  led  him  up  to  some  little  boys  with  a  view  to 
distracting  him,  while  the  Illustrator  darted  down 
a  wiggly  road  with  a  stream  crossing  it  and  a  mill 


beyond.  As  soon  as  He  decides  upon  a  composi- 
tion I  try  very  hard  to  find  something  about  the 
view,  in  order  to  justify  his  sketching  it  beyond  his 
natural  wilfulness. 

I  was  in  hopes  his  choice  concerned  Stonewall 
Jackson  and  Barbara  Fritchie,  but  the  boys  gave 
me  no  encouragement.  They  were  playing  in  a 
gay,  green  square,  opening  off  the  main  street. 
On  one  side  was  the  stream  which  was  slipping 
stealthily  past  the  Illustrator  that  it  might  dash 
through  the  village  and  see  the  sights.  I  told  the 
boys  that  I  knew  they  had  all  the  rightful  informa- 
tion about  Barbara  Fritchie  as  I  could  see  they 
were  Scouts.  And  while  they  were  not  Scouts  they 
rose  to  the  compliment,  and  escorted  me  to  the 
other  side  the  bridge.  Here  a  tablet  read  that  her 
house  had  once  stood  upon  this  perilous  point,  di- 
rectly over  the  water.  So  I  assume  that  it  had 
been  washed  away  and  the  stream  is  given  wider 
bounds  that  it  might  not  drown  any  more  of  his- 
toric Frederick. 

It  was  very  disconcerting  to  have  the  house  on 
the  downtown  side  of  the  creek,  for  Stonewall 
Jackson  could  not  possibly  have  come  "  up  from 
the  meadows  rich  with  corn,"  by  way  of  the  Illus- 
trator's watery  lane  and  on  toward  Harper's 
Ferry  if  the  Fritchie  story  were  true.  I  almost 
wished  I  had  not  seen  the  small  boys  who  embar- 

-j-86-f- 


THE  TOLL  HOUSE  OX  SOUTH  MOUNTAIN,  MARYLAND 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

rassed  me  further  by  asking  if  Toby  belonged  to 
the  circus. 

"  I  seen  one  to  a  circus,"  argued  the  principal 
embryo  Boy  Scout  to  my  cold  negative. 

Toby  nudged  me.  "  Ask  him  what  the  dog 
done,"  he  said  to  me. 

"  He  done  nothin',"  said  the  boy,  thus  inter- 
rogated by  me. 

Really — I  never  did  like  young  men.  They 
aren't  to  be  trusted.  I  walked  up  the  street  to  an 
enchanting  chemist  of  middle  age,  and  bought 
some  medicine  for  my  cough  (I  love  to  speak  of 
"  my  cough,"  it  sounds  so  die-away)  not  that  I 
cough  much,  but  I  wanted  to  talk  about  Barbara 
to  him.  I  thought  I  ought  to  buy  something  first, 
but  one  does  not  need  to  buy  anything  of  a  South- 
erner if  one  really  prefers  to  talk.  I  found  that 
out  afterwards.  And  they  would  give  up  a  good 
sale  any  day  to  tell  you  of  their  town  history. 

It  was  very  interesting  to  notice  the  skill  with 
which  he  skated  over  the  thin  ice  of  Barbara's 
story.  Out  of  loyalty  he  wouldn't  deny  it,  and, 
like  Shaw's  poet  in  his  play,  he  "  wallowed  in  the 
honour  of  a  gentleman."  He  employed  a  certain 
deftness  in  leading  one  away  from  the  subject  to 
truths  which  are  not  questioned.  At  least  they  are 
questioned  only  by  the  Government  that  has  been 
trying  ever  since  the  Civil  War  to  avoid  paying 

-+•87-1- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

Frederick  $200,000  and  interest.  Each  year  the 
Congressman  for  that  district  brings  it  up,  and 
each  year  it  is  thrown  out,  and  each  year  the  citi- 
zens of  Frederick  pay  interest  to  the  banks  who 
loaned  them  the  money  to  keep  the  Confederate 
Early  from  destroying  the  town. 

Frederick  was  sympathetic  with  the  North,  and 
took  pride  in  the  great  Union  stores  in  their  keep- 
ing. They  were  stacked  up,  I  believe,  in  the  old 
Baltimore  and  Ohio  freight  depot  which  is  still 
standing,  and,  speaking  of  relics,  is  the  oldest  rail- 
way station  in  the  world.  Some  one  came  dashing 
in  on  horseback  one  night,  one  of  those  nameless 
boys  whose  wild  rides  never  got  into  poetry,  urg- 
ing that  the  stores  be  hidden,  for  General  Early 
was  raiding  through  the  country  en  route  to  an  at- 
tack upon  Washington.  The  citizens  hurried  away 
by  train  the  rations  for  man  and  beast,  and  by  the 
time  Early  arrived,  confident  of  food  and  fodder, 
he  found  the  depot  empty.  Enraged  at  this  he 
threatened  to  destroy  the  town  if  the  sum  of 
$200,000  was  not  paid  him  with  which  to  buy  other 
stores,  and  the  good  townsfolk  borrowed  the  money 
from  the  banks  to  save  the  city.  But  this  so  de- 
layed Early  that  his  effort  to  reach  Washington 
was  of  little  value,  and  I  do  think  it's  horrid  of 
Congress  not  to  pay  Frederick  that  money. 

The  enchanting  middle-aged  chemist  believed 
H-88-*- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  Barbara,  so  indig- 
nant I  was  over  the  shabby  treatment  of  the  town. 
And  I  might  have  forgotten  had  not  a  very  trim 
type  of  corner  drug  store  patron  egged  me  on 
again.  I  noticed  him  when  I  came  in.  He  had  al- 
ready taken  his  "  morning's  morning,"  and  was 
teetering  about  in  a  dignified  fashion  while  he 
talked  over  our  position  in  this  present  war. 
Rather,  his  companion  talked  and  he  disapproved, 
repeating  at  steady  intervals:  "  Ain't  we  a  powah?  " 
until  his  companion  settled  the  matter  by  saying: 
"  No,  we  ain't  a  power,"  after  which  the  trim  non- 
abstainer  turned  to  me. 

It  was  he  who  suggested  my  going  to  the 
printer's.  The  printer  knew  All,  and  while  All 
might  cause  a  good  deal  of  uneasiness  if  it  were 
applied  to  some  historic  characters,  I  had  no 
qualms  about  Mrs.  Fritchie.  But  the  printer  was 
of  a  type  (typographically  speaking)  new  to  me. 
He  did  not  work  on  Easter  Monday — nor  would 
he  let  his  machinery.  Everything  was  as  secretive 
about  the  establishment  as  Barbara's  washed-away 
house.  And  I  grew  very  discouraged,  which  is  the 
way  to  become  after  trying  very  hard,  for  then 
something  agreeable  always  happens. 

I  sought  out  the  Illustrator,  for  no  matter  how 
inefficient  we  feel  each  other  to  be,  we  always  flock 
together  when  things  look  blue.  Toby  and  I  ap- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

preached  from  the  other  side  the  stream  by  the 
busy  old  mill  which  didn't  know  about  Easter 
Monday.  The  wagons  go  through  the  water,  "  also 
the  Fords,  but  no  automobiles,"  I  was  told,  and 
there  is  a  tiny  suspension  bridge,  swaying  like  a 
trapeze,  for  foot  passengers  over  which  Toby  had 
to  be  teased.  "  A  nice  circus  dog,"  I  told  him, 
"  can't  swing  on  a  trapeze." 

To  offset  this  cowardice  he  growled  at  a  rooster 
which  was  crowing  at  us,  because  the  Illustrator 
had  already  gone  and  I  couldn't  find  out  All  about 
Barbara  Fritchie.  An  old  gentleman  in  a  back 
yard  chided  him  for  crowing  while  I  chided  Toby 
for  growling,  and  in  that  way  we  became  friendly. 
He  was  weeding  the  garden,  but  he  had  words  to 
assure  me  that  the  suspension  bridge  had  been 
there  in  War  Times — "  sure  pop  " — for,  though 
a  little  chap,  he  was  there  himself. 

'  Yes,  ma  am,  stood  on  it  to  watch  the  soldiers 
wade  through  the  water.  The  town  was  full  of 
'em,  Yanks  and  Rebs,  all  the  time." 

I  sighed.  I  was  glad  he  stood  on  the  bridge— 
at  midnight — or  whenever  it  was.  And  I  tried  not 
to  wish  that  it  had  been  Stonewall  Jackson  stand- 
ing there  instead.  I  was  rewarded  for  my  ab- 
stemious wishing.  " Yes,  ma'am''  continued  the 
old  gentleman  shaking  the  dirt  out  of  a  weed. 
"  Saw  General  Jackson  pass."  He  threw  the  weed 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

in  one  corner  of  the  yard  just  as  though  he  had 
said  nothing  at  all. 

I  put  my  toe  in  a  knot  hole  of  the  fence  and 
climbed  higher.  "  General  Jackson,"  I  told  him 
in  a  small  fine  voice,  "  must  have  come  down  Main 
Street  or  he  couldn't  have  passed  Barbara 
Fritchie's  house." 

"  Forded  his  hoss  right  through  thet  air  water," 
throwing  another  weed,  "  his  colyum  a'streamin' 
after  him.  Off  to  Harper's  Ferry,  'n  from  there 
to  Antietam." 

"  My  goodness  gracious  no! " 

"  Sure  pop.    You  ask  the  cobbler's  wife." 

"Cobbler's  wife?" 

"  First  turn  to  the  right  and  on  till  you  see  the 
cobbler's.  You  ask  her." 

I  hated  to  leave  that  lovely  man  who  could  bring 
so  much  joy  into  a  life  while  pulling  weeds,  but  I 
did  so  want  to  meet  the  cobbler's  wife.  Toby  and 
I  flew  around  to  the  right.  I  warned  him  nerv- 
ously: "  Behave  yourself  now.  Everything  depends 
upon  our  behaviour,"  and  he  did  conduct  himself 
with  the  greatest  decorum.  If  I  do  say  it  Toby  is 
the  dog  for  a  crisis. 

I  fear  they  were  about  to  have  dinner  in  the  back 
room,  for  the  shoemaker  had  left  his  bench  and  his 
tools  were  laid  out  as  neatly  as  a  lady's  manicure 
set.  It  was  very  warm,  with  the  pleasant  smell  of 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

leather,  and  the  room  had  some  of  those  lovely  old 
chairs  with  legs  sloping  fore  and  aft.  I  don't  see 
how  I  could  notice  them  when  I  was  so  afraid  that 
the  wife  wouldn't  talk  to  me,  but  I  am  in  the  habit 
of  seeing  things  now,  and  I  keep  on  doing  it  even 
though  my  head  gets  full  of  rubbish  like  an  old, 
old  attic. 

But  she  came  out  from  the  back  room  and  he 
and  she  and  their  daughter  and  I  all  shook  hands, 
while  a  growing-up  grandchild  who  wanted  his  din- 
ner looked  unutterables  at  me  from  a  distance. 

"  Well,"  said  the  gentle  old  lady  with  a  twist 
of  a  smile  and  brown  eyes  that  still  embraced  the 
world,  "  I  guess  I  can  tell  it."  She  smoothed  her 
dress  down  over  her  knees.  "  I  hardly  know  how 
to  begin," 

"  Barbara  Fritchie "  I  encouraged. 

"  That  was  wrong,"  assisted  the  old  gentleman. 
"  She  was  in  bed." 

"  We  think  it  might  be  politics  that  got  her  name 
in,"  aided  the  daughter. 

Politics!  Shades  of  Jeanne  d'Arc!  Catherine  de 
Medici !  Diane  de  Poitiers ! 

"  You  see  that  house  across  the  way?  "  the  mother 
started  again.  I  did;  it  wasn't  very  pretty  but  it 
was  old.  "  It  was  just  that  way  exceptin'  that  it 
had  a  railing  across  the  steps  when  Mrs.  Quantrille 
lived  there." 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

"Mrs.  Quantrille?"  As  the  Illustrator  would 
say :  perfectly  new  stuff. 

*  Yessum.  The  one  that  had  the  flag.  I  was  in 
her  household  then.  Her  husband  worked  in  Wash- 
ington. She  was  a  mighty  smart  woman  and  a 
right  handsome  one.  Everybody'd  kinda  look 
at  her  on  the  street.  Yessum.  And  she  was 
a  Northerner,  but  we  were  all  kinds  in  Fred- 
erick." 

"  I  fought  with  the  South,"  said  the  shoemaker. 

"  He  did,"  continued  his  wife,  "  and  my  brothers 
fought  for  the  North.  The  two  armies  used  to 
come  raidin'  through  the  town,  and  pickin'  each 
other  off  right  in  the  street  sometimes." 

:<  Would  you  be  scared?  "  I  probed. 

"  Scared?  Why,  I'd  be  that  scared  I  couldn't 
tell  the  colours  of  the  uniforms.  Thought  I  saw  my 
brothers  in  the  front  yard,  and  they  were  Rebs. 
But  they  never  hurt  women,  neither  side." 

"  No,  nobody  ever  hurt  women  in  those  days," 
said  the  old  soldier. 

"  But  us  girls  used  to  have  good  times  with  both 
sides.  We'd  joke  an'  laugh  with  the  Rebs,  and 
they'd  say  they  would  come  back  and  marry  us, 
and  while  that  would  make  us  hoppin'  mad  some 
of  'em  did  come  back  and  marry  us." 

The  old,  old  lady  and  the  old,  old  gentleman 
smiled  at  each  other. 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

"  This  ain't  tellin'  her  about  the  flag,"  insinuated 
the  husband. 

"  No  'tain't.  Daughter,  run  up  and  get  that  pic- 
ture of  Mrs.  Quantrille.  You  know,  ma'am,  we  al- 
ways felt  a  battle  ahead,  and  when  the  orders  came 
from  Lee  for  General  Jackson — there  didn't  many 
call  him  Stonewall  then — to  march  his  troops 
through  the  town  to  seize  Harper's  Ferry,  we  felt 
something  in  our  bones.  He  came  by  way  of  that 
creek." 

"  Not  past  Mrs.  Fritchie's  house? " 

"  No'm,  just  this  side  of  it.  We  were  all  on  the 
stoop  watchin'  for  Mr.  Jackson  who,  we  had  heard, 
always  rode  with  a  Bible  under  his  arm.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  delay  along  the  road  because  you 
know,  ma'am,  they  wait  for  the  commissary.  The 
Confederate  band  was  playin'  down  at  the  drug 
store,  and  it  was  Hill — D.  H.  Hill,  there  were  two 
in  this  corps — who  sent  for  the  musicians  to  serenade 
Mrs.  Quantrille  and  us  girls.  He  had  reined  his 
horse  alongside  of  us  and  we  were  all  cutting  up. 

"  All  this  time  Mrs.  Quantrille  had  a  little  Union 
flag  in  her  hands.  It's  the  rule  when  an  army  comes 
through  a  town  that  only  the  flag  of  the  army  is 
shown,  so  I  reckon  hers  was  about  the  only  one 
flying.  Mrs.  Fritchie  was  a  very  old  lady  and  was 
sick  in  bed  that  day." 

"  But  didn't  anybody  protest  about  it? " 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

"Well,  Mr.  Hill  said,  'Madam,  you  ought  to 
take  that  flag  of  yours  and  make  an  apron  of  it/ 
but  quick  as  a  flash  she  came  back  '  You  ought  to 
take  yours,  sir,  and  make  breeches  out  of  it.'  They 
were  terribly  ragged,  that  corps. 

'  Then  Hill  rode  on  and  no  sooner  had  he  gone 
than  one  of  the  privates,  gettin'  into  line,  stabbed 
it  with  his  bayonet,  and  used  some  language  that 
wasn't  very  nice.  Mrs.  Quantrille  was  as  perky  as 
you  please.  She  made  a  fuss  about  it,  and  said  the 
man  ought  to  be  arrested  for  rudeness  to  a  lady. 
So  one  of  the  officers  rode  on  ahead  and  said  he'd 
see  to  it.  Southern  gentlemen  were  very  particular 
about  language  before  a  lady.  I  don't  suppose 
anything  was  ever  done  because  there  was  a  good 
deal  to  think  about  just  before  a  battle. 

"  But  Mrs.  Quantrille  said,  '  Girls,  have  any  of 
you  got  a  flag? '  We  used  to  all  carry  Union  flags 
in  the  bosom  of  our  basques,  and  May  went  into 
the  hall  and  took  hers  out.  So  by  the  time  General 
Jackson  came  along  she  was  waving  one  again.  He 
never  said  a  word  that  I  can  remember,  and  we 
were  all  so  excited  bowin'  to  him  that  we  had  to 
laugh  afterwards  because  we  forgot  to  look  for  his 
Bible.  Yessum,  we  did. 

"  It  was  the  other  Hill  of  Jackson's  Division — I 
always  call  him  the  Hill  on  the  cream  coloured  horse 
— who  brought  up  the  rear.  And  he  said  to  Mrs. 

-j-95-e- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

Quantrille,  '  You  ought  to  be  shot  for  wavin'  that 
flag.'  His  pistol  was  out  of  its  holster  but  he  didn't 
shoot  her.  And  Mrs.  Quantrille  who  always  had 
the  last  word,  said  '  You'll  be  the  one  to  be  shot.' 
It  seemed  a  kind  of  a  prophecy,  for  he  was  killed. 
But  then  a  good  many  was.  And  after  that  an- 
other soldier,  encouraged  by  what  Hill  said,  I 
reckon,  cut  the  second  flag  out  of  her  hand  and 
trampled  on  it.  So  if  the  poet  had  got  it  right, 
he'd  have  had  two  flags  torn  down." 

"  So  that,"  I  said,  "  is  the  story  of  Barbara 
Fritchie." 

"  Yessum.  They  say  people  who  write  just 
naturally  can't  tell  the  truth — excuse  me." 

"  Money,"  said  the  shoemaker. 

"  Politics,"  insisted  the  daughter  who  had  come 
back  with  the  photograph. 

"  Romance,"  I  suggested,  not  daring  to  urge 
"  artistry." 

Toby  and  I  walked  up  the  street,  going  very  un- 
easily toward  Barbara  Fritchie's  tablet.  I  felt  as 
though  I  had  been  taking  finger  prints  on  a  flag 
staff. 

From  a  distance  I  heard  the  beating  of  drums 
and  the  sound  of  fifes.  I  thought  the  martial  music 
had  got  into  my  brain  along  with  the  spell  of  the 
story,  and  that  I  must  be  dreaming.  But  the  beat 
grew  more  insistent,  and  I  abandoned  the  search 

-J-96-J- 


A  FINE  OLD  STORY  EXPLODED 

for  the  Illustrator  in  the  good  old  search  for  the 
band.  I  looked  down  the  little  lane  where  Jack- 
son's men  had  marched,  and  there,  to  my  chilling 
horror,  saw  an  oncoming  army.  Over  the  swaying 
suspension  bridge  they  marched,  not  the  stalwart 
boys  of  Jackson's  Division  but  a  little  company  of 
little  darkies.  The  only  resemblance  was  the  fife 
and  drum,  and  the  ragged  condition  of  the  corps. 
They  bore  two  banners,  one  to  announce  a  baseball 
game  that  afternoon  and  the  other  a  painted  notice 
in  uncertain  lettering  which  read:  Dance  Up  To- 
night. 

But  a  drum  is  a  drum  for  all  that.  On  they  swept 
through  the  town,  passing  Barbara  Fritchie's  tab- 
let out  of  compliment  to  the  good  lady.  A  yellow 
dog  followed  them  proudly,  and  behind  the  yellow 
dog  came  a  West  Highland  Terrier,  and  a  beauti- 
ful woman  with  prematurely  grey  hair — who  shall 
be  nameless. 

On  and  on  we  marched  as  gay  as  linnets,  until 
a  certain  roadster  drew  up  alongside  and  the  voice 
of  the  commander  cried  "  Halt!  "  I  spoke  to  him 
sternly : 

;<  Who  touches  a  hair  of  my  grey  head 
Dies  like  a  dog."    "  Get  in,"  he  said. 

And  Toby  and  I  under  the  Old  Dominion  of  the 
stronger  sex  motored  on  to  Antietam. 


97 


CHAPTER  VI 

Too  Much  of  Me  in  This,  but  the  Truth  about 

Our  Toll-gate  Picture.    History  to 

Burn  and — Virginia 

WHEN  I  was  a  little  girl  there  was  a  room  in  our 
stable  with  a  platform  at  one  end,  used  by  the  for- 
mer owner  for  billiards.  It  is  hard  to  tell  why  he 
had  the  platform  unless  it  was  for  the  Look-out. 
For  many  years  our  coachmen,  varying  in  colour 
from  the  ebony  of  Old  Sam  to  the  lobster  hue  of  a 
country  boy,  who  was  known  by  us  as  Green 
Henry,  slept  there.  That  is,  in  a  bed  on  the  plat- 
form— like  a  succession  of  kings. 

I  would  like  to  talk  about  them  but  the  Illustra- 
tor is  already  warning  me  if  I  make  this  book  too 
long  "  it  will  scare  them  off,"  meaning  that  a  thin 
book  written  by  me  is  of  more  value  than  a  fat  one. 
Fat  ones  terrify  him.  When  a  new  book  of  mine 
comes  out  he  has  a  way  of  sticking  his  head  in  at  my 
door  saying:  "  Can't  I  go  to  bed?  I've  read  a 
chapter." 

But  Green  Henry  (I  must  say  this)  was  brought 
frequently  to  my  mind  the  more  intimately  I  be- 
came acquainted  with  our  chauffeur.  To  be  sure 
our  present  driver  was  New  York — or  at  least  New 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

Jersey — to  the  last  "  woid."  But  he  had  the  same 
interest  in  things  about  him  that  Green  Henry  had 
when  he  came  to  the  great  city  to  drive  our  horses. 
My  mother  is  a  timid  woman  and  as  the  smallest 
reference  to  what  we  saw  along  the  street  was  ac- 
companied by  Green  Henry's  close  attention  we 
were  obliged  to  see  and  speak  to  no  one,  all  of  us 
staring  straight  ahead  in  the  hope  that  the  new- 
comer to  the  State  Capitol  would  emulate  us. 

With  the  same  cordiality  that  he  embraced  city 
life  so  did  our  genial  chauffeur  take  to  himself  the 
ways  of  the  country.  He  overtook  them.  He  could 
tell  the  name  of  any  bird  on  the  wing  no  matter  how 
distant;  he  knew  the  wild  flowers  by  the  wayside, 
indeed,  went  so  close  to  recognise  them  that  we 
feared  the  day  would  come  when  we  would  lie  in 
the  ditch  along  with  the  daisies.  But  nothing  ever 
happened  to  us  beyond  a  rather  mean  irritation 
when  he  would  cry,  as  he  tooled  us  out  of  a  hedge : 
"  Nobody  can  beat  me  on  eyesight." 

He  was  delighted  with  the  custom  of  bowing  to 
each  other  which  is  still  charmingly  preserved  on 
Southern  roads.  And  from  an  inclination  of  the 
head  while  driving  he  rapidly  progressed  to  a  sa- 
lute, a  wave  of  the  hand,  and,  finally,  the  long  ex- 
tended arm  of  welcome — something  after  the  man- 
ner of  a  monarch  recognising  his  subjects.  I  recall 
it  was  when  Green  Henry  began  cheerily  lifting 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 
\ 

his  hat  to  our  passing  friends  as  they  bowed  to  us 
that  the  stern  exigencies  of  Safety  First  caused  us 
to  relinquish  him.  He  went  back  to  the  farm — car- 
rying our  good  cook — and  this  gets  me  around  to 
the  beginning  of  the  chapter,  for  a  man  who  "  slept 
home  "  took  his  place  and  the  coachman's  room  was 
given  over  to  us  children. 

We  scrubbed  and  aired  it  before  it  became  a  first 
class  theatre,  but  there  was  always  a  pungent  trace 
of  the  long  line  of  servitors  who  had  so  fully  occu- 
pied the  stage  before  us.  And  on  warm  days,  when 
the  drama  was  intense,  mothers  and  fathers  were 
known  to  leave  even  before  their  children  made 
their  appearance.  We  gave  several  war  plays,  seri- 
ous plays  in  their  intention,  and  we  children  could 
not  understand  the  unseemly  mirth  among  our  el- 
ders when  this  very  battleground  was  presented 
toward  which  we  motored  Easter  Monday. 

It  was  called  "  Lost  His  Last  Chance,"  a  title 
to  make  any  one  think.  Yet  after  the  first  lines  of 
the  prologue,  which  I  had  carefully  put  into  rhyme, 
there  was  a  great  lack  of  self-control.  Having  writ- 
ten the  play  I  spoke  all  the  good  lines.  I  came  out 
wearing  the  red,  white,  and  blue  bunting  used  to 
drape  our  front  porch  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  I 
was  beautiful,  but  impeded  by  the  twenty-two 
yards  of  drapery  as  my  mother  would  not  allow 
me  to  cut  any  of  it  up.  I  progressed  as  far  as : 

H-100-*- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

"  Dear  Friends,  foul  deeds  and  hard  to  beat  'em 

You'll  find  in  plays  of  Ant-ie-eet'em." 

Then  the  uproar  began. 

"  Didn't  you  know  it  was  pronounced  An-tee- 
tum?  ""  said  my  mother  afterward.  ["  You  see, 
Sam,"  as  Frank  Tinney  would  say,  I  put  this  in 
so  that  you'll  all  know  how  it  is  pronounced,  and 
not  keep  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  joke.] 

I  told  this  to  W as  we  went  along  a  most 

engaging  road,  and  while  he  didn't  care  much  about 
it  I  will  say  that  the  chauffeur  laughed  most  satis- 
factorily. W was  busy  looking  for  toll-gates. 

We  were  agreed  that  the  road  was  as  good  as  any- 
thing in  France  and  it  seemed  only  right  that  we 
should  pay  something  for  it.  We  were  just  going 
in  at  the  tip-toppy  of  the  Blue  Ridge  when  we 
found  so  lovely  an  old  toll-gate  ahead  of  us  that  we 
stopped  on  this  side  for  a  sketch. 

The  chauffeur  discovered  the  first  white  violets, 
the  first  buttercups,  and  a  red  clover  which  I  was 
proud  to  tell  him  was  sorrel.  I  spoke  of  the  cus- 
tom in  Normandy  of  staking  the  cows  in  a  long 
line  and  making  them  eat  with  neatness  and  no 
waste.  Whenever  we  are  in  perfectly  simple  sur- 
roundings with  the  birds  singing  in  the  bush,  sun — 
some  clouds — and  a  good  white  road,  I  do  not  think 
of  any  other  part  of  America,  but  of  France — or 
Austria — or  Germany.  Yet  not  of  Italy.  Italy 
-MOH- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

is  so  vibrant  with  old  passions,  so  teeming  with 
castles  on  grey  hill  tops,  so  hurt  with  the  straining 
of  beasts  of  too  great  burdens.  South  Mountain 
lay  ahead  of  us  and  beyond  that  was  the  little  creek 
of  Antietam  across  which  the  two  armies  fought 
with  the  greatest  loss  of  any  day  in  the  Civil  War. 
And  that  is  France — and  Austria — and  Germany. 

When  the  Illustrator  had  almost  completed  his 
sketch  and  Toby  had  run  away  in  fear  from  a  piece 
of  earth  moving  unassisted  in  an  even  ridge — for 
he  had  not  learned  "  mole  " — I  went  up  to  the  toll- 
gate  lady  who  was  working  in  her  garden  to  say 
that  we  ought  to  pay  toll  for  the  house  as  well  as 
the  road. 

"  Toll? "  she  repeated.    "  Tain't  a  toll-gate." 

I  came  over  to  her  closely.  I  didn't  want  the  Il- 
lustrator to  hear.  "  It's  got  to  be  a  toll-gate.  My 
husband  has  been  looking  for  a  typical  one  and  he 
says  this  is  perfect." 

"  'Twas  a  toll-gate  once,"  she  admitted.  "  Tolled 
the  road  mighty  nigh  a  hundred  years,  I  reckon,  but 
I  plant  tomatoes  now.  No,  won't  cost  you  a  cent." 

"  But  don't  you  see,"  I  whispered  excitedly,  "  it's 
got  to  be  an  active  toll-gate.  If  it  isn't,  he'll  tear  up 
the  sketch  and  I  do  so  want  it  in." 

"  In?  "  I  told  her  about  the  book.  She  stared 
at  me  in  a  sort  of  happy  daze.  '  This  old  ram- 
shackle in  a  book — well,  what  are  we  coming  to? " 

-j-102-f- 


BURN  SIDE'S  BRIDGE,  ANTIETAM 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

I  saw  an  opening.  "  It's  up  to  you.  I  tell  you 
what."  I  watched  the  Illustrator  from  afar  as  the 
plan  took  shape.  "  When  we  come  along  here,  you 
just  hold  out  your  hand  and  say  *  ten  cents '  and 
then  I'll  give  it  to  you.  Say  fifty  if  you  want  to. 
It's  worth  it." 

"  Land  sakes!    I'll  get  took  up  for  it." 

She  wouldn't  do  it.  That  sweet,  tired,  honest 
woman  wouldn't  do  it.  I  kept  on  talking.  I  saw 
large  possibilities  of  her  making  more  than  she  ever 
would  out  of  tomatoes.  She  need  only  hold  up  tour- 
ing motors  with  New  York  numbers.  "  Remember, 
cream  background  and  blue  lettering.  If  they  are 
a  young  couple  in  a  little  car  why  only  ask  eight 
cents,  if  a  large  rich  party,  not  carrying  my  book, 
ask  a  dollar.  It  will  do  them  good,  and  they  won't 
get  a  better  road  in  Europe." 

She  laughed  and  laughed  at  my  nonsense. 
"  Land  sakes,"  she  kept  repeating.  But  we  finally 
effected  a  compromise.  She  went  into  the  house 
and  picked  a  ten-cent  piece  out  of  her  poor  worn 
purse,  giving  it  to  me.  Four  minutes  after  that  as 
our  car  rolled  up  she  came  out  sternly,  and  "  Ten 
cents,"  she  demanded,  like  the  best  actress  on 
Broadway. 

Of  course  there  is  going  to  be  a  little  trouble 
about  this,  but  at  the  present  writing  the  Illustrator 
has  gone  to  the  Lambs'  Gambol,  and  I'll  choose  a 

-e-103-*- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

time  to  read  it  out  to  him  when  he  loves  the  world 
— when  he  comes  home  from  the  Gambol  for  in- 
stance ! 

We  stopped  at  Middletown  to  be  sure  that  we 
were  right  for  Boonsboro,  questioning  five  very 
fat  men  who  were  sitting,  quite  correctly,  on  the 
porch  of  Koogle's  candy  store.  I  wanted  to  ask 
them  if  McClellan  had  marched  via  Boonsboro  but 
the  Illustrator  thought  it  was  better  not  to.  We 
would  be  so  disappointed  had  they  gone  another 
way.  If  this  man  had  three  eyes  and  didn't  know 
it  he  would  not  consider  that  he  had  them. 

So  swift  was  our  pace  that  we  arrived  and  left 
Boonsboro  before  we  knew  it  and  drove  back  a  lit- 
tle to  turn  sharply  to  the  left  for  Antietam  Creek. 
The  tablets  along  the  country  road  began  much 
sooner  than  we  had  expected.  It  gave  us  a  thrill 
to  see  "  Headquarters  of  the  Army  of  the  Po- 
tomac "  marking  where  the  tents  had  been  pitched. 
It  was  a  field  of  grain  then,  it  is  a  field  of  grain  now. 
Between  that  point  and  the  creek,  the  bridges  of 
which  were  so  fiercely  contested,  were  many  mark- 
ers, great  open  scrolls,  which  gave  the  divisions  of 
the  Federals,  told  us  when  they  were  despatched  to 
the  bridges,  when  they  were  relieved  and  by  what 
regiments. 

The  history  of  the  battle  is  exceedingly  simple 
and  I  beg  that  I  may  tell  a  little  of  it.  It  is  easier 

-f-104-e- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

than  working  out  a  picture  puzzle,  and  I  think  in 
time  you  will  find  it  more  stimulating.  It  intro- 
duces some  of  our  friends  at  Frederick  and  some 
who  endured  for  the  battle  at  Gettysburg  three 
years  later. 

On  the  13th  of  September,  1862,  McClellan  com- 
ing into  Frederick  from  Washington  was  handed 
an  order  found  by  a  Yankee  private,  from  Lee  to 
D.  H.  Hill.  It  showed  that  the  Confederates  were 
at  present  divided  on  South  Mountain — it  showed 
to  McClellan  that  it  would  be  a  great  coup  to  place 
himself  between  them.  "  Sing  opportunity!  " 

But  he  did  not  go  that  night.  He  waited  until 
the  14th.  In  the  meantime  the  Confederates  had 
consolidated,  and  when  McClellan  forced  them  to 
evacuate  the  gaps  in  the  mountain  it  was  with  great 
loss  of  men.  When  Lee  heard  of  the  lost  order-^- 
imagine  the  despair  of  this  fine  General! — he 
hastily  withdrew  his  forces,  which  were  nearing 
Hagerstown,  moved  to  Antietam  and  sent  for 
Jackson  who  had  marched  from  Frederick — as  we 
know — to  Harper's  Ferry. 

Had  McClellan  followed  up  his  first  attack  with- 
out delay  he  might  have  gained  the  victory,  so  reads 
history,  but  another  day  was  lost  in  skirmishing, 
and  it  was  not  until  the  17th  that  the  battle  opened 
in  earnest.  Jackson's  men  were  arriving,  yet  things 
were  pretty  shaky  for  the  Confederates — 60,000 

-J- 105  -«- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

men  opposed  to  87,000  Federals — when  our  friend 
A.  P.  Hill,  of  the  cream  coloured  horse,  leading  the 
last  division  of  Jackson's  soldiers  arrived  from 
Harper's  Ferry.  They  had  travelled  18  miles  over 
roads  not  such  as  we  were  enjoying,  but  they  went 
immediately  into  action.  They  went  without  or- 
ders from  Lee  or  anybody  else  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out.  They  fell  upon  the  Union  men  who  had  taken 
the  bridges  at  all  costs — and  at  such  cost — and 
drove  them  back  to  their  first  entrenchments. 

Night  came.  Lee's  army  which  was  not  on  the 
defensive  but  the  offensive  in  this  battle,  moved  far- 
ther south,  and  McClellan,  who  was  on  the  offensive 
not  the  defensive  let  them  go.  For  this  he  was  re- 
moved, and  Burnside  was  put  into  command.  The 
nation,  I  believe,  rejoiced  that  at  least  Lee's  inva- 
sion of  the  North  had  been  checked,  and  they  buried 
the  12,470  men  who  had  checked  him. 

A  little  company  of  school  children  with  their 
teacher  came  along  the  road,  as  accustomed  to  the 
tablets  as  they  were  to  the  wild  flowers,  and  look- 
ing at  me  curiously  as  I  sniffled.  They  advised  us 
to  cross  the  ugly  modern  bridge  ahead  and  go  to 
the  one  now  known  as  Burnside's,  for  there  the 
fighting  had  been  most  furious.  We  went  on 
through  more  peaceful  country,  fields  of  May 
wheat  rich  in  promise,  along  the  ridge  which  Lee's 
zeal  had  granted  him.  A  fine  old  house  stood  at 

-*- 106  -?- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

the  bottom  of  the  hill  across  which  the  guns  must 
have  thundered.  We  asked  a  scrap  of  a  boy  with 
soft  brown  eyes  who  was  swinging  on  the  farmyard 
gate  what  he  had  done  when  the  shooting  began  and 
he  said  "  I  don't  just  remember."  One  could 
hardly  blame  him,  but  I  was  sorry  I  couldn't  find 
out  some  way  or  other,  for  it  has  always  been  a 
mystery  to  me  how  houses  are  evacuated  during 
such  times  of  stress.  But  he  could  only  tell  me  that 
he  was  Mr.  Nicodemus's  little  boy. 

The  Burnside  bridge  over  the  stream  is  very 
lovely.  We  crossed  again  that  we  might  read  the 
memorials  to  the  Northern  men  who  had  held  it. 
The  Illustrator  brought  me  a  little  bunch  of  violets 
picked  at  the  base  of  one  column  to  unknown  dead. 
Above  rose  the  heights  which  Hill's  men  had 
wrested  from  the  advancing  Federals.  It  could 
have  been  no  easy  task  to  have  climbed  that  steep. 
On  one  corner  of  the  bridge  Colonel  Pope  has 
erected  a  granite  stone  to  the  35th  Regiment  of 
Massachusetts : 

'  Who  crossed  the  bridge  and  went  up  the  lane 
and  left  there  214  killed  and  wounded. 

"  Gloria  est  pro  patria  mori." 

So  ran  the  inscription. 

There  was  time  to  sit  quietly  in  the  sunshine  and 
think  it  out.  I  know,  too,  that  it  is  glorious  to  die 
for  one's  country.  I  know  it  now  after  suffering 

-j-107-*- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

from  doubt  and  confusion  for  twenty-two  months. 
I  know  that  the  flesh  must  die  that  the  spirit  may 
be  quickened.  And  what  can  patriotism  be  but 
spiritual  manifestation?  Why,  after  all,  should  a 
man  fight  for  the  mere  dirt  on  which  he  chanced 
to  be  born  unless  it  means  man's  highest  expression 
of  the  inner  life — the  life  that  has  naught  to  do 
with  the  love  of  man  for  woman  or  the  material  ties 
of  hearth  and  home? 

And  yet — again  I  am  confuted — if  this  battling 
for  a  cause  is  constructive  and  not  destructive,  if 
it  is  a  process  of  evolution,  the  following  of  a  nat- 
ural law,  why  should  the  young  men  go  before  the 
old?  Why  do  not  the  old  men  go  out  to  battle  and 
the  younger  men  fill  their  depleted  ranks?  I  sup- 
pose I  shall  find  an  answer  to  this.  One  finds  so 
many  answers  in  these  days  to  the  problems  of  life. 

We  secured  at  Antietam  what  we  missed  at  Get- 
tysburg: the  vision  of  a  battle.  It  did  not  come 
from  government  roads,  nor  acres  of  land  turned 
into  park — the  former  yield  of  the  good  brown 
earth  nullified.  It  came  from  the  fields  of  grain 
serving  as  they  had  served  in  war  times,  ful- 
filling their  mission  as  the  soldier  fulfilled  his. 

Not  long  ago  a  friend  of  ours — a  woman — ex- 
clsrimed  over  my  joy  in  the  quick  return  of  the 
French  peasants  to  their  scarred  farms.  She 
thought  a  battleground  should  remain  sacred,  she 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

said  it  would  be  offensive  to  her  to  eat  the  bread 
of  a  blood-soaked  earth.  And  I  have  no  reply  in  a 
language  fitting  for  the  theme.  But  here  are  a  few 
verses  of  a  young  American,  Alan  Seeger,  who  is 
with  a  regiment  in  the  Champagne  district  of 
France.  The  entire  poem  was  printed  in  the 
North  American  Review,  and  Mr.  Review  has  been 
so  good  as  to  let  me  use  them. 

rf  Under  the  little  crosses  where  they  rise 

The  soldier  rests.    Now  round  him  undismayed 
The  cannon  thunders,  and  at  night  he  lies 
At  peace  beneath  the  eternal  fusillade  .    .    . 

ef  Obscurely  sacrificed,  his  nameless  tomb, 

Bare  of  the  sculptor's  art,  the  poet's  lines 
Summer  shall  flush  with  poppy-fields  in  bloom, 
And  Autumn  yellow  with  maturing  vines. 

"There  the  grape- pickers  at  their  harvesting 

Shall  lightly  tread  and  load  their  wicker  trays, 
Blessing  his  memory  as  they  toil  and  sing 
In  the  slant  sunshine  of  October  days  .    .    . 

ef  I  love  to  think  that  if  my  blood  should  be 
So  privileged  to  sink  where  his  has  sunk, 
I  shall  not  pass  from  Earth  entirely, 

But  when  the  banquet  rings,  when  healths  are 
drunk, 

"And  faces  that  the  joys  of  living  fill 

Glow  radiant  with  laughter  and  good  cheer, 
In  beaming  cups  some  spark  of  me  shall  still 
Brim  toward  the  lips  that  once  I  held  so  dear." 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

It  is  all  there,  isn't  it?  I  hope  every  one  in  every 
Broadway  cabaret  when  glasses  are  lifted  for  years 
to  come  will  think  of  this. 

We  stopped  at  Sharpsburg  for  luncheon,  sanely 
hungry  after  an  emotional  morning — just  as  it 
should  be.  The  hotel  was  getting  a  new  coat  of 
paint  and  they  said  they  never  had  anything  to  eat 
when  they  painted.  We  were  served  at  the  Nico- 
demus  house  further  along  by  a  brown-eyed  young 
girl  like  those  of  the  little  chap  who  doesn't  quite 
remember  what  he  did  during  the  Civil  War.  The 
pretty  girl  was  his  cousin  and  used  to  live  in  that 
very  farm  house.  The  three  of  us  sat  in  a  long  dark 
dining  room  while  she  graciously  served  us,  talking 
of  what  the  Nicodemus  family  did  when  Lee  lev- 
elled his  guns  at  the  foe  across  the  valley.  "  They 
just  naturally  all  cleared  out,"  she  told  us,  which 
was  a  very  sensible  thing  to  do  considering  that  the 
thick  brick  walls  are  still  encasing  the  lead  of  both 
armies. 

She  was  a  nice  girl  and  agreed  with  us,  saying  it 
was  mighty  pretty  about  here.  I  looked  for  the 
restlessness  that  marks  the  faces  of  so  many  coun- 
try girls  of  the  North,  but  she  was  passive.  Pos- 
sibly that  very  love  of  home — not  of  the  wide  coun- 
try but  of  the  small  environment — is  the  quality 
that  made  it  rational  for  the  Southern  graduate 
from  West  Point  to  cleave  to  his  state  in  preference 

-e-110-*- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

to  his  nation  when  he  walked  in  his  Garden  of  Geth- 
semane  and  made  his  choice. 

When  we  arose  to  go  and  I  reached  for  my  purse 

W began  hissing  to  me :   "  Don't  insult  her — 

not  a  single  cent,"  like  a  nest  of  snakes.  This  would 
have  been  surprising,  for  he  is  an  honest  man,  and 
had  eaten  a  great  many  eggs,  had  I  not  under- 
stood his  fear  that  I  was  going  to  tip  her.  I  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  tipping  the  First  Lady  of 
the  Land  as  of  offering  anything  beyond  the  price  of 
the  meal  and  our  thanks  to  pretty  Miss  Nicodemus. 

I  said  as  much  when  we  got  outside  and  W , 

who  had  put  on  a  grey  suit  that  morning  and  for- 
gotten his  rock-ribbed  forefathers,  replied  that  you 
could  never  tell  what  mistakes  a  Northerner  might 
make. 

Thus  varying  the  day  with  pleasant  wrangles 
we  came  to  a  new  diversion,  perhaps  one  should 
say  division,  for  it  was  the  Potomac  River  spanned 
by  a  long  bridge.  He  went  ahead  to  take  a  pic- 
ture of  it  with  our  car  magnificently  crossing,  but 
he  had  no  sooner  reached  the  other  side  and  begun 
waving  for  us  to  start  than  the  chauffeur  discovered 
a  sign  overhead  which  threatened  a  heavy  fine  if  we 
passed  without  paying  toll.  There  was  no  one 
about  to  take  our  money,  still  both  of  us  were  cau- 
tious as  to  our  expenditures  and  the  enraged 

-f-111-e- 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

W had  to  return  to  tell  us  that  the  toll-gate 

was  at  the  far  end. 

A  very  dear  old  toll  gentleman  explained  that 
they  had  put  up  the  sign  as  a  horrible  warning.  "  I 
cain't  always  ketch  'em,"  he  said,  which  was  the 
truth,  as  in  a  running  contest  he  couldn't  have 
caught  a  crab  going  backward.  We  asked  if  any 
one  was  low  enough  to  escape  tolls,  and  we  learned 
that  there  are  people  who  make  a  regular  business 
of  it.  They  have  an  instinct  for  it  like  pickpockets, 
counterfeiters,  or  safe  breakers.  I  thought  it  must 
be  very  uncomfortable  to  be  handicapped  by  such 
an  instinct.  It  would  not  be  as  lucrative  a  pursuit 
as  pocket  picking,  and  the  field  of  one's  industry 
would  be  limited,  for  he  would  have  to  spend  his 
life  hanging  about  toll-gates  whereas  pockets  were 
in  every  part  of  the  world. 

I  fear  I  spoke  too  sympathetically,  but  W 

came  up,  turning  the  old  man's  attention  by  the  de- 
sire to  know  something  of  a  monument  high  on 
the  bank  which  he  had  just  "  taken."  The  old  man 
told  us  it  was  put  up  for  Rumsey  who,  he  said, 
"  discovered  steam."  There  is  nothing  like  enter- 
prise for  acquiring  a  monument,  but  I  looked  into 
Mr.  Rumsey's  past  more  definitely  and  found  he 
had  applied  the  power  to  a  boat,  an  honour  shared 
with  several  other  discoverers. 

"  It's  goin'  to  rain,"  our  old  new  friend  tolled 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

(forgive  me)  as  we  left  him,  "  the  Baltimore  Sun 
says  so."  And  this  raised  the  question  as  to  the 
state  we  were  in.  Anybody  in  Maryland  would  be- 
lieve the  Baltimore  Sun,  but  could  its  blighting 
prognostications  be  taken  seriously  in  the  Vir- 
ginias? We  asked  a  huge  black  fellow  guiding 
oxen  just  where  we  were  and  he  replied  that  he 
"  reckoned  we  was  in  East  Virginia,"  then  con- 
fessed frankly  as  we  pinned  him  down  about  this 
state  new  to  us,  that  he  disremembered. 

It  was  West  Virginia,  and  after  some  driving 
along  a  country  lane,  fields  right  to  the  motor's  toes, 
we  came  to  Harper's  Ferry.  High  on  a  bluff  over- 
looking the  merging  of  the  Shenandoah  River  with 
the  Potomac  is  a  fine  hotel  known  as  the  Hill  Top 
Inn.  It  is  managed  by  an  intelligent  coloured  man 
and  his  wife,  and  that  is  the  finest  monument  which 
could  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  John  Brown. 

From  the  bench  on  which  the  Illustrator  was 
sketching  they  pointed  out  the  inconspicuous  shaft 
far  below,  erected  to  the  great  fanatic's  memory. 
I  didn't  know  much  about  John  Brown,  at  least  I 
"  disremembered  "  save  that  "  John  Brown's  body 
lies  mouldering  in  the  grave,  but  his  soul  goes 
marching  on."  So  we  listened  to  the  two  as  they 
spoke  most  impersonally  of  the  man  who  had  given 
his  life  to  free  their  people.  He  had  come  out  of 
Kansas.  He  had  been  lawless  enough  there  to  bear 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

watching,  for,  violently  anti-slavery,  he  had  been 
instrumental  in  the  deliberate  killing  of  five  slave 
owners  of  that  state,  yet  I  cannot  find  that  any 
steps  were  taken  to  indict  him  for  these  murders. 

In  time  he  conceived  a  well  formed  plan  to  make 
raids  into  Virginia  and  Maryland,  seize  slaves  and 
hurry  them  through  to  Canada.  Some  of  the  cooler 
abolitionists  in  the  Eastern  States  would  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him,  but  he  secured  funds,  and  with 
eighteen  followers  actually  captured  the  United 
States  arsenal  at  Harper's  Ferry,  cut  the  telegraph 
wires,  and  entrenched  in  an  engine  house,  where  the 
little  shaft  now  rises,  held  all  comers  at  bay  until 
overcome  by  marines.  Curiously  enough,  two 
United  'States  army  officers  then  known  as  Colonel 
Robert  E.  Lee  and  Lieutenant  J.  E.  B.  Stuart  of 
Gettysburg  fame — but,  alas,  no  longer  under  the 
same  flag — effected  his  arrest. 

"  He  wasn't  any  more  crazy  than  I  am,"  said  the 
intelligent  coloured  proprietor  of  the  stately  inn. 
"  He  showed  that  at  the  trial.  But  when  you  be- 
lieve in  only  one  thing  and  you  believe  in  it  hard 
you  seem  crazy  to  people  who  don't  care  much.  It 
appears  to  me  to  keep  your  balance  you  got  to  be- 
lieve in  a  heap  of  different  things." 

So  John  Brown,  the  insurrectionist,  was  hanged. 
He  died  with  dignity  if  he  lived  with  violence,  ad- 
vancing his  belief  more  in  the  quitting  of  life  than 


L     Wcv**    ««»«.« 

•>,        H/»'«<I>   r*»«.t 

•-"-  ****• 


THE  POTOMAC  AT  HARPER'S  FERRY 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

by  any  fierce  holding  of  it.  He  became  a  martyr 
and  his  private  prejudice  grew  into  a  sacred 
Cause.  He  believed  that  naught  could  be  accom- 
plished without  the  shedding  of  blood — he  gave 
his  own.  It  takes  a  superman  for  that  especial 
sacrifice. 

The  hotel  proprietors  withdrew  to  welcome  a 
luxurious  motor,  and  Anna  Dore  with  her  two  little 
friends  next  occupied  our  attention.  Anna  Dore 
was  of  a  dark  skinniness  familiar  to  my  youth,  and 
she  was  the  self -elected  leader  in  the  game  of  roll- 
ing coloured  Easter  eggs  down  the  hill — this  as- 
sumed leadership  is  also  familiar.  Each  had  her 
basket  of  eggs,  the  contents  of  which  were  rolled 
rather  gingerly,  the  egg  getting  the  farthest  win- 
ning the  other  trophies.  It  was  an  encouraging 
refutation  of  the  old  adage  which  is  being  continu- 
ally applied  to  me  by  an  anxious  family  that  "  A 
rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss." 

I  asked  them  what  they  did  with  so  many  cracked 
eggs — I  was  hoping  for  the  present  of  a  smashed 
one — and  Anna  Dore  replied  that  they  only  rolled 
them  until  hunger  (presumably  theirs)  was  stilled. 
She  had  another  game  which  consisted  of  tapping 
upon  each  other's  shell  to  see  which  cracked  first. 
"  Do  you  pick? "  said  Anna  Dore  to  me  very  po- 
litely. 

"  She  does,"  returned  the  Illustrator,  and  as  I 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

did  not  wish  her  to  get  a  wrong  idea  of  married  life 
I  hurried  on  to  Toby. 

He  had  gone  off  with  a  lop-eared  beagle  whose 
charm  consisted  in  leading  dogs  strange  to  the  town 
along  the  perilous  edges  of  the  cliff.  And  no  mat- 
ter how  near  death  the  chauffeur  afterwards 
brought  me,  I  have  always  been  grateful  to  him  for 
pursuing  those  will-o'-the-wisps.  It  was  not  a 
chauffeur's  duty,  nor  was  he  in  training  for  it,  but 
this  is  one  of  the  penalties  for  taking  a  friendly  in- 
terest in  his  employers.  We  finally  got  under  way, 
Toby  lunging  out  and  barking  farewell  to  tiie 
beagle.  "  I  like  this  Harper's  Fairy,"  he  cried,  not 
understanding  at  all.  But  it  made  us  think  for  the 
first  time  of  the  ferry  and  of  Harper.  Where  was 
it?  Who  was  he?  I  doubt  if  even  the  coloured 
proprietor  would  know. 

And  now — evening,  with  the  first  yellow  clay  of 
Virginia  prematurely  beginning  in  West  Virginia. 
We  passed  through  Charlestown  with  a  memorial 
hall — given  by  Charles  Broadway  Rouss — showing 
a  huge  picture  of  the  donor  in  the  steeple.  I  don't 
know  why  more  millionaires  who  build  great  edi- 
fices have  not  thought  of  this  pictured  fame. 
Imagine  Mr.  Woolworth's  face  going  all  the  way 
down  his  tower — the  longest  face  in  the  world ! 

Sharp  at  the  state  line  which  bounced  us  into  Vir- 
ginia we  struck  some  bad  going.  The  road  was 


HISTORY  TO  BURN  AND— VIRGINIA 

probably  built  by  one  of  the  First  Families  of 
Virginia — and  never  touched  since.  It  was  not  the 
welcome  we  would  have  planned,  although  it  was 
something  we  feared.  But  we  were  distracted  by  a 
youth  ploughing  the  rich  clay  of  a  field.  He  wore  a 
dull  blue  shirt  and  his  face  was  glowing  from  too 
long  a  task.  There  were  four  great  black  horses 
straining  at  the  plough,  but  as  we  passed  he  pulled 
them  into  inaction.  He  watched  us,  and  I  thought 
there  was  a  terrible  despair  in  his  face,  despair  that 
he  must  plough  of  a  sweet  Spring  evening  while  we 
drove  by.  I  longed  to  tell  him  that  he  made  the 
finest  picture  I  had  ever  seen,  and  my  first  pic- 
ture of  Virginia.  But  I  could  only  wave  to  him, 
and  immediately  what  bitterness  there  was  left 
him — or  he  was  too  proud  and  too  courteous  to 
show  it — he  lifted  his  broad  hat  and  swung  it  in  the 
air,  then  went  on  with  his  work. 

And  while  the  pike  behaved  itself  a  few  yards 
further  on,  I  found  this  first  experience  over  the 
state  line  entirely  Virginian.  When  the  way  is  bad 
lift  your  head  and  hear  the  mocking  bird ;  turn  your 
head  and  see  the  beauty  about  you.  Look  to  the 
people  and  the  road  will  be  easier  by  the  smile  they 
give  to  you.  It  is  unending — and  takes  no  toll. 


117 


CHAPTER  VII 

Officer  Noonan  All  Over  These  Pages,  an  Um- 
brella, the  Shenandoah  Valley,  Wicked 
Gypsies,  and  a  Shampoo 

THERE  was  a  progressive  hotel  in  Winchester, 
Virginia,  which  sent  out  advance  notices  of  itself 
like  a  well-billed  play.  "  Hungry?  "  read  a  sign  on 
a  tree  with  the  name  of  the  hotel  underneath. 
"  Bath?  "  it  continued  further  on.  "  Sleepy?  "  In- 
deed every  inducement  was  offered  except "  Dog?  " 
and  for  that  reason  we  passed  it  when  we  reached 
the  old  town  stopping  at  the  newer  Hotel  Jack. 

It  was  not  until  Toby  and  I  had  triumphantly 
gained  our  rooms  that  he  read  out  to  me  a  notice 
on  the  back  of  the  door:  "  No  dogs  allowed."  But 
nothing  was  said  to  us  at  the  desk,  and  we  assume 
that  the  landlord  had  wisely  put  elastic  in  his  rules 
which  gave  the  motorist  extra  privileges.  He  is 
right  in  this  for  the  automobilist  is  willing  to  pay 
for  extravagances,  and  the  possible  annoyance  of  a 
dog  should,  I  think,  go  down  on  the  bill.  It  hasn't 
as  yet,  but  I  see  no  reason  why  the  price  should  not 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

be  "  $2.00  with  bath,"  and  "  $2.50  with  bath  and 
dog." 

They  could  not  accommodate  the  Illustrator, 
however,  with  any  sort  of  liquid  refreshment  less 
soft  than  a  down  pillow.  Many  other  towns  in  Vir- 
ginia have  gone  distressingly  dry  and  in  November 
the  whole  state  will  be  forced  into  grape  juice  tod- 
dies. The  clerk  assured  W that  he  would  be 

accommodated  at  the  club  now  occupying  General 
Phil  Sheridan's  old  headquarters.  "  Just  explain 
the  situation,"  he  hospitably  advised,  and  while  the 
club  would  no  doubt  have  astonishingly  done  this, 
the  Northern  man  felt  that  by  no  stretch  of  decency 
could  he  sign  the  visitors'  book. 

We  walked  up  the  street  after  an  excellent  meal 
to  see  this  fine  old  house  which  had  been  described 
as  opposite  the  new  library  instead  of  the  new 
library  opposite  it.  Both  buildings  were  impres- 
sive, although  we  mistook  the  character  of  the  more 

recently  built  edifice.  W was  saying  that  it 

looked  as  a  library  should  when  one  of  the  ladies 
of  Winchester  sent  "  daughter  "  in  to  buy  "  five 
twos,  three  ones,  and  a  postal  card."  It  was  just  as 
satisfactory  in  the  character  of  post  office  and 
across  the  street  was  the  new  library,  excellent  too, 
but  not  in  the  Georgian  style  suitable  for  the  home 
of  Elsie  Dinsmore,  or  the  books  concerning  her. 

I  knew  that  I  should  go  into  this  library  and  find 
-e-119-f- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

out  historical  truths  about  Winchester,  but  I  knew, 
also,  that  I  wasn't  going  to  do  it  when  it  was  so 
much  pleasanter  walking  about  the  streets  listening 
to  what  people  were  saying.  "  Daughter  "  had 
come  out  of  the  post  office  and  she  went  on  with  her 
elders,  joining  in  the  conversation  with  that  grown 
up  freedom  which  young  people  enjoy,  yet  do  not 
take  advantage  of  in  the  South.  They  were  all 
agreed  that  Mrs.  Kendall  had  right  pretty  hair, 
and  daughter  said  that  whenever  mother  saw  her 
coming  up  the  street  "  she  hollers  out : '  Here  comes 
Mrs.  Kendall  with  her  pretty  hair '  " — as  though 
Mrs.  Kendall  might  not  have  it  with  her  every 
day. 

It  was  amusing  to  hear  the  child  introduce  "  hol- 
ler" into  correct  conversation.  I  have  had  to  re- 
buke an  excellent  Virginia  maid  for  telling  me  that 
"  he  is  hollerin'  for  his  breakfast,"  whether  refer- 
ring to  W or  the  canary  bird.  I  felt  at  the 

time  that  she  was  in  a  state  of  perplexity  over  my 
criticism,  and  having  heard  the  word  frequently 
used  down  there  for  "  call "  I  presume  I  am  in  a 
position  to  apologise  to  her. 

They  drifted  up  the  best  street  while  we  cut  into 
a  narrow  alley  for  no  reason  in  the  world  save  that 
we  could  do  exactly  as  we  pleased,  and  came  out 
on  the  highway  before  a  most  beautiful  old  hotel. 
It  was  denied  its  original  purpose,  but  a  small  por- 

-M20-I- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

tion  of  it  served  at  the  time  that  we  were  there  as  a 
show  room  for  Antique  Furniture.  There  could  be 
no  better  shelter  for  the  old  mahogany  of  the  South 
than  this  splendid  ante-bellum  building.  We  stood 
before  it  a  long  time  and  I  went  back  (in  the  rain 
the  Baltimore  Sun  had  sent  us)  later  in  the  even- 
ing to  look  up  at  its  wide  silent  verandas  and  sad 
unlighted  windows. 

More  than  any  other  form  of  housing  for  hu- 
man beings,  a  hotel  needs  people  to  render  it  any- 
thing but  a  shell.  Yet  one  is  conscious  of  this  lack 
rather  in  the  closed  hotels  which  never  boasted  a 
history.  How  quickly  all  character  is  gone  from  a 
mammoth  Summer  inn  when  the  shutters  go  up! 
How  meaningless  are  the  walls  of  a  city  caravan- 
sary when  it  is  deserted  by  its  clientele !  A  hotel  is 
not  built  to  husband  books  or  pictures  or  household 
effects.  It  is  a  rooftree  for  men  and  women,  and, 
sometimes,  if  the  rules  are  gentle,  children  and 
dogs.  But  an  ancient  tavern  is  pervaded  with 
memories,  and  like  a  tired  mortal  who  has  richly 
experienced  the  weal  and  woe  of  life,  it  retains 
a  quality  that  holds  the  interest  of  the  mere  pass- 
erby. 

In  my  case  I  was  not  a  passerby.  I  was  a  lin- 
gerer-there, and  a  returner-to.  I  was  misunder- 
stood of  course.  When  I  came  back  in  the  Balti- 
more Sun's  rain  late  that  night  the  Illustrator, 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

rudely  aroused  from  his  first  sleep,  said  I  was  hang- 
ing around  there  in  the  hope  that  the  Antique  Fur- 
niture shop  might  open.  And  while  this  was  un- 
true, it  put  a  new  thought  in  my  head  and  I  deter- 
mined to  be  on  hand  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

The  rain,  set  up  in  heavy  type,  continued  and  I 
could  get  no  encouragement  from  the  coloured 
waiter  at  breakfast  over  its  possible  cessation.  The 
cloud  burst  would  not  interfere  with  my  going  to 
the  Antique  Furniture  but  it  would  dim  the  joy  of 
motoring  ninety-four  miles  up  the  great  and  his- 
toric Shenandoah  Valley.  A  little  girl  who  sat  at 
table  next  to  me  was  equally  discomfited  because 
— new  and  alarming  child — she  couldn't  go  to 
school.  "  And  it's  French  day.  And  I  do  like  my 
French.  And  I  get  good  marks  in  my  French." 

"  Listen  to  the  canary  bird  singing  so  happily," 
said  the  mother  with  an  inane  attempt  to  distract 
her.  "  It  doesn't  want  to  get  out  of  its  cage." 

"  Let  it  holler,"  said  the  young  person.  "  It 
doesn't  know  how  nice  it  is  to  get  out,  and  I  have 
learned  all  about  it." 

Griefs  are  relative,  but  you  can't  make  the  ag- 
grieved one  admit  it.  I  had  wanted  all  my  life  to 
see  the  Shenandoah  Valley  and  she  wanted  to  have 
her  French  lesson  yet  I  suppose  her  disappointment 
was  as  great  as  mine.  I  had  one  advantage  over 
her:  I  was  going  just  the  same.  The  touring  mo- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

torist  who  is  stayed  by  rain  would  stop  and  turn 
back  at  the  first  mud  hole  though  the  sun  shone. 

At  least,  we  were  going  after  I  had  visited  the 
Taylor  Hotel,  for  that  was  the  name  of  the  old 
inn.  I  abandoned  the  bills  and  bags  to  the  Illustra- 
tor and  borrowed  an  umbrella  at  the  office.  The 
clerk  carried  it  down  the  steps  for  me  and  opened 
it  with  so  great  a  show  of  good  manners  that  I  went 
off  in  a  daze,  forgetting  to  thank  him.  Once  at  the 
furniture  shop  a  man  oiling  an  old  table  came  for- 
ward to  say  that  the  proprietor,  an  antiquarian  of 
note,  was  moving  his  effects  across  the  street,  but 
to  make  myself  at  home.  This  I  did,  weaving  my 
way  about  beautiful  mahogany  at  very  low  prices 
and  telling  myself  that  I  already  had  one  side- 
board and  no  dining  room.  I  passed  into  the  court 
now  roofed,  but  that  had  once  been  open;  the  rooms 
gave  on  galleries  running  about  three  sides  of  the 
hollow  square,  while  the  stage  coaches  and  post 
chaises  were  driven  in  from  the  fourth  side  after 
the  fashion  of  old  English  inns. 

I  did  not  get  all  this  by  intuition  but  was  grace- 
fully apprised  of  it  by  Mr.  Noonan.  Mr.  Noonan 
appeared  suddenly  from  nowhere  with  a  nickel  de- 
vice of  some  sort  on  his  blue  cap  which  I  took  to  be 
the  insignia  of  nothing  less  than  a  colonel.  It  was 
hard  to  believe  he  was  a  roundsman  going  around, 
hard  to  believe  from  the  information  he  gave  me 

r*- 123  -*-: 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

and  his  manner  of  delivering  it.  One  would  never 
stop  a  New  York  policeman  to  ask  him  if  the  block 
house  in  Central  Park  was  put  up  as  a  protection 
against  the  Indians  or  the  English.  But  Officer 
Noonan  had  the  history  of  Winchester  and  of  the 
Taylor  Hotel  at  his  tongue's  end. 

It  was  just  as  good  as  I  felt  it  would  be — this  old 
place.  It  had  been  built  in  the  middle  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  when  it  was  known  as  the  Edward 
McGuire  Tavern.  "  But  Doctor  von  Witt  would 
tell  you  all  about  that,"  he  had  a  way  of  saying 
when  dates  became  a  little  persistent.  They  had 
all  been  there :  Washington,  when  he  assisted  Brad- 
dock,  and  General  Braddock  himself,  fighting  the 
Indians  stupidly  in  British  formation,  demanding 
it  of  others  and  going  to  his  death.  Davie  Crockett 
had  stayed  there.  I  couldn't  find  out  why,  though 
in  the  report  I  gleaned  from  one  history  that "  With 
little  education  he  became  a  noted  hunter."  Henry 
Clay  rested  his  horses  on  his  way  to  White  Sulphur 
Springs;  Daniel  Webster  in  1852  leaned  over  the 
railings  to  address  the  people  below. 

"  Thomas  J.  Jackson,"  as  the  general  so  signed 
himself,  hung  his  call  to  arms  on  the  walls,  and  the 
tavern,  by  that  time  changed  in  name  to  the  Taylor 
Hotel,  was  deserted  for  a  space  as  the  men  of  Win- 
chester responded.  Then  came  the  occupation  of 
the  town  by  whatever  successful  army  that  chanced 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

to  pass  through.  Union  troops,  Confederate 
troops,  Union  troops  again,  each  side  making  the 
hotel  its  general  headquarters  until  it  must  have 
been  hard  for  the  Southern  barkeeper  to  know 
whether  to  mix  poison  or  honest  liquor.  In  one  day 
the  hotel  changed  hands  five  times,  and  if  I  quote 
correctly,  Winchester  endured  over  seventy  occu- 
pations and  evacuations  of  the  two  armies. 

I  am  afraid  to  look  this  up  for  fear  it  will  be 
wrong,  and  I  couldn't  press  Officer  Noonan  too 
closely.  It  would  have  been  as  rude  as  asking  him 
what  he  had  in  the  cigar  box  he  was  firmly  carry- 
ing. I  know  one  thing,  I  never  had  a  more  lovely 
morning,  rain  or  shine,  and  Toby  and  I  splashed 
over  to  the  mysterious  Dr.  von  Witt  feeling  that 
there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  But  there  was 
a  little  more. 

I  found  the  antiquarian  and  guide  among  his 
treasures — Treasures  of  the  Humble  they  might  be 
called  for  they  were  easily  within  one's  means.  But 
there  was  a  safe  in  the  room,  and  out  of  it  came  a 
ledger  and  another  time-stained  document  for 
which  we  might  possibly  swap  our  automobile  if  we 
threw  in  Toby. 

The  ledger  was  of  the  Edgar  McGuire  Tavern  of 
1763  proving  that  Edward  Braddock  and  Daniel 
Morgan — a  great  Indian  fighter — and  George 
Hollings worth  (comrade  of  Lord  Fairfax  I  think) 

-*- 125  -*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

all  ate  very  little  and  drank  a  great  deal.  They 
were  particularly  fond  of  a  "  bumbo  "  which  cost 
one  shilling  three  pence,  and  judging  by  its  steady 
demand  before  a  dinner  must  have  been  the  cock- 
tail of  the  day. 

Then  Dr.  von  Witt  "  because  you  are  fond  of 
these  things,"  took  out  the  other  document,  lifted 
it  from  its  wrappings  and  displayed  the  neat  ac- 
count of  the  young  surveyor  George  Washington. 
The  bill  covered  the  two  years  from  1747  to  1749 
when  he  was  occupied  in  surveying  the  .great  estates 
of  Lord  Fairfax.  The  whole  sum  rendered  was 
something  under  one  hundred  dollars  and  of  this 
poor  little  George  received  but  thirteen  dollars  in 
cash ;  the  rest  he  had  eaten  up,  rendering  faithfully 
to  my  Lord  Fairfax  the  bags  of  flour,  flitches  of 
bacon  and  other  commodities  which  go  to  make  a 
man  the  Father  of  his  Country. 

We  are  so  accustomed  to  portraits  of  our  first 
President  looking  out  at  us  benignly,  with  snow- 
white  hair  arranged  something  the  way  I  do  mine, 
that  it  is  hard  to  believe  he  could  ever  have  car- 
ried the  chain  for  so  many  months  with  such  poor 
results.  But  I  found  the  story  much  less  irritating 
than  the  outrageous  one  of  the  cherry  tree,  and 
more  of  an  incentive  to  the  young  politicians  of  the 
country  to  work  with  the  hands  and  leave  election- 
eering to  others. 

-j-126-*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

Since  he  was  not  of  age  the  acquittal  had  been 
countersigned  by  Lawrence  Washington,  and  to 
my  shame  be  it  said  I  had  forgotten  that  Lawrence 
was  his  consumptive  half-brother  who  died  shortly 
afterwards  leaving  the  industrious  civil  engineer 
the  estate  of  Mount  Vernon.  I  think  the  antiqua- 
rian's faith  in  me  was  shaken  by  this  unfortunate 
revelation,  this  and  the  divulgence  that  we  were  mo- 
toring on  without  further  explorations  in  Winches- 
ter. "  Do  you  know,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  that  this 
town  is  historically  second  to  but  one  other  in  the 
South? "  I  looked  out  of  the  window  fearing  my 
expression  would  reveal  my  quick  wonder  as  to  the 
name  of  the  first  town.  The  old  hotel  looked  across 
at  me.  In  the  rain  I  could  see  the  Illustrator  mak- 
ing a  sketch  and  Officer  Noonan  talking  to  our 
driver.  No,  we  could  not  give  up  the  car  for  young 
George's  bill  but  would,  oh  would  Dr.  von  Witt 
exchange  it  for  the  chauffeur! 

The  good  antiquarian's  eyes  followed  mine,  but 
they  did  not  seek  the  chauffeur.  They  were  on  the 
old  building. 

"  It  is  to  be  altered  soon.  That  is  why  I  am 
moving  out." 

"Altered?    For  preservation? " 

"  No,"  said  he  bitterly,  "  for  a  five  and  ten  cent 
store." 

And  I  here  beg  Mr.  Kresge  to  keep  the  old 
-e-127-J- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

f  a9ade  as  it  is,  or  may  the  town  of  Winchester  once 
more  rise  up  and  turn  the  invading  army  from  its 
door. 

Since  the  bill  was  paid  and  the  baggage  strapped 
on  we  were  ready  to  start  up  the  Valley — ready, 
except  for  the  umbrella.  It  wasn't  much  of  an  um- 
brella and  I  haven't  much  honour,  but  sufficient  to 
guarantee  a  return  of  the  kindly  loan.  For  all  one 
knew  it  might  have  been  left  at  the  hotel  by  L.  M. 
H.,  the  nice  young  man  who  had  also  forgotten  the 
collar — and  a  clean  one — which  was  found  in  my 
top  dresser  drawer.  I  know  that  his  initials  are  L. 
M.  H.,  for  the  collar  says  so,  and  I  know  he  is  a  nice 
young  man,  as  he  had  dumped  into  the  drawer  a 
quantity  of  small  paper  flags  with  which  he  had  evi- 
dently been  "  tagged  "  on  Belgium  Day.  So  I  left 
the  collar  hoping  that  he  might  return — besides,  it 
didn't  fit  the  Illustrator. 

The  most  charming  thing  about  Winchester  was 
the  leaving  of  it,  which  sounds  ungrateful  but  read 
along,  for  Officer  Noonan  said  he  would  take  the 
umbrella  back  himself  as  he  continued  on  his 
rounds.  The  last  we  saw  of  him  he  was  wading 
through  the  flood  with  it  in  one  hand  and  the  enig- 
ma cigar  box  in  the  other.  "  It's  just  Southern 
courtesy  in  a  nutshell,"  said  the  Illustrator. 

But  I  confounded  him  with  a  line  of  Chaucer. 

"  A  verray  parfit  gentil  knight,"  said  I. 
-t- 128  -t- 


A  RELIC  OF  ANTE-BELLUM  DAYS— THE  TAYLOR  HOTEL 
AT  WINCHESTER,  VIRGINIA 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

The  rain  obligingly  lessened  as  we  reached  the 
first  toll-gate,  which  suited  us  very  well,  as  it  is 
pleasant  to  chat  with  the  keepers  and  we  can't  ex- 
pect them  to  get  wet  while  we  are  asking  if  they 
think  it  is  going  to  clear  up.  Some  did  away  with 
all  efforts  to  engage  them  in  conversation  by  stick- 
ing out  a  warming  pan  from  the  door  into  which  we 
dropped  our  ticket.  At  least  it  looked  like  a  warm- 
ing pan  or  a  skillet  with  a  long  handle,  the  gift  of  a 
hotel  which  lay  ahead  of  us.  A  hotel  evidently 
does  not  read  its  Gideon  Bibles.  Not  only  the  left 
hand  knoweth  what  the  right  hand  doeth  when  the 
patron  gets  something  for  nothing,  but  the  left  re- 
peateth  it  in  big  print  on  the  other  side  the  article. 
They  "  holler  "  it  out  so  loud  that  you  can't  make  a 
gift  of  the  thing  even  to  a  blind  man. 

The  only  way  a  woman  can  ever  dispose  of  the 
fans  she  receives  at  restaurants — and  get  some 
credit  for  her  generosity — will  be  to  find  a  race 
on  a  South  Sea  island  who  will  take  the  lettering 
for  part  of  the  ornamentation.  I  have  often 
thought  how  agreeable  it  would  be  to  discover  a 
country  like  this  where  the  inhabitants  had  a  sense 
a  humour  but  had  never  heard  a  single  one  of  the 
fine  old  stories  which  were  so  much  better  than  are 
the  new  ones.  Fancy  hearing  the  best  joke  in  the 
world  for  the  first  time ! 

We  must  get  beyond  the  first  toll-gate  for  there 
.-*- 129  -*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

are  nineteen  of  them  on  this  route.  You  pay  for 
the  whole  lot  at  once  and  it  is  a  bargain  as  the  long 
slip  of  tickets  have  been  reduced  gradually  from 

$4.65  to  $1.79.  W ,  who  believes  in  statistics  so 

long  as  other  people  collect  them,  was  filled  with 
pride  of  me  when  I  told  him  at  the  end  of  the  run 
that  the  tickets  were  collected  by  three  old  men, 
four  young  men,  eight  old  women,  four  young 
women,  and  two  whose  age  will  receive  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt.  As  the  darky  expressed  himself  con- 
cerning the  advisability  of  the  chicken  hash  at 
breakfast,  they  were  kind  of  "  so-so  "  as  to  their 
years. 

I  think  this  toll-gating  should  really  be  a  job  for 
old  people  or  for  crippled  ones.  And  the  control- 
lers of  the  roads  must  agree  with  me  for  many  of 
the  little  houses  were  presided  over  by  men  without 
an  arm.  If  any  one  follows  us  on  this  route  I  wish 
he  could  find  out  and  let  me  know  why  such  a  quan- 
tity of  young  men  in  the  South  have  lost  an  arm  or 
a  hand.  It  must  be  that  they  work  in  machinery 
when  they  are  children,  doing  the  tasks  of  the  elders 
with  the  carelessness  of  youth.  I  could  never  lead 
up  to  the  query  without  giving  possible  offence,  or, 
as  the  chauffeur  put  it,  "  without  stepping  on  their 
toes  " — which  would  be  a  mean  thing  to  do  to  a  man 
not  quite  all  there  as  to  his  extremities. 

Some  one  in  Winchester  told  us  to  ask  at  the 
-i-130-*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

second  gate  about  the  woman  stationed  there  in 
war  times  who  held  up  and  demanded  toll  from 
the  Union  Army  as  they  were  seeking  Jackson. 
We  hear  very  little  of  Stonewall  Jackson  in  the 
Shenandoah  Valley,  only  of  Sheridan  who  devas- 
tated it  so  completely  in  1864.  But  Jackson  in 
1862  seized  vast  stores  of  the  Union  forces  under 
Milroy,  Banks,  Shields,  and  Fremont.  Sheridan 
was  not  alone  in  recognising  the  advantage  of 
controlling  the  Shenandoah.  It  not  only  was  a 
rich  granary  for  the  Southern  people,  but  its  level 
length  furnished  an  easy  approach  to  Harper's 
Ferry,  and  from  there  to  Washington  and  Balti- 
more. I  suppose  there  were  many  rides  as  dashing 
as  Sheridan's  if  one  would  only  stay  long  enough 
in  the  public  library  to  find  out  about  them  and  not 
go  off  to  look  at  hats.  And  I  think  a  public  library 
should  be  in  a  remote  part  of  town  far  from  mil- 
linery. 

We  couldn't  get  a  word  from  the  toll-gate  lady 
about  the  story  so  vaguely  outlined  at  Winchester. 
But  she  thrust  out  a  warming  pan  just  as  her  prede- 
cessor might  have  thrust  a  gun,  and  while  it  is  a 
brave  deed  to  hold  up  scouts — even  Boy  Scouts — I 
should  think  that  a  woman  at  a  toll-gate  would, 
from  long  experience  at  holding  up,  be  in  a  state  of 
preparedness  which  renders  her  deed  less  remark- 
able. 

-M31-*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

We  couldn't  care  much  about  the  doubtful  story 
anyway  as  we  had  to  concentrate  our  weak  intel- 
lects on  Sheridan's  ride  up  the  Valley.  The  road 
invited  speed,  although  Mr.  Noonan  had  warned 
us  there  were  "  constibules  "  behind  every  bush  to 
discourage  any  pace  swifter  than  the  doughty  gen- 
eral's. [I  love  that  word  doughty  and  I  haven't  an 
idea  what  it  means,  but  as  it  is  always  applied  to 
generals  it  may  have  something  to  do  with  epau- 
lets.] In  these  days  of  swiftly  covering  the  ground 
en  auto  it  is  difficult  to  give  any  credit  to  the  feat 
of  galloping  a  horse  almost  twenty  miles,  but  let 
the  motor  break  down  and  let  the  motorist  walk 
back  three  miles  to  a  village  or  trot  back  with  a  bor- 
rowed horse  and  he  will  have  an  idea  of  the  momen- 
tum of  General  Sheridan  when  he  reached  his 
troops  in  two  hours'  time  as  I  read  somewhere.  He 
even  had  breath  enough  left  to  rally  the  disheart- 
ened and  give  General  Early's  men  the  second  sur- 
prise of  the  morning. 

In  truth  there  were  three  surprises,  and  while  I 
say  "  in  truth,"  I  am  feeling  a  little  nervous  about 
it  for  the  story  was  told  me  by  an  old  soldier  with 
whom  time  has  possibly  juggled  fact  and  fiction. 
The  first  surprise  was  on  the  Union  troops  sitting 
down  to  breakfast  as  Early's  men  descended  upon 
them;  the  second  was  on  Phil  Sheridan  who  had 
spent  the  night  at  Winchester  and  was  riding  back 

H-  132  •*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

to  his  command  leisurely  with  nothing  "  in  his 
bones,"  telling  him  that  there  was  havoc  ahead.  The 
third  surprise  was  on  the  Confederate  soldiers,  who 
after  dispersing  the  enemy  sat  down  to  finish  up 
the  breakfast  so  hastily  abandoned  by  them.  And 
there  seems  to  be  no  moral  in  this  at  all,  for,  as  every 
one  knows,  women  must  work  and  men  must  eat 
and  General  Sheridan  had  every  right  to  sleep  at 
his  headquarters. 

The  only  thing  I  can  get  out  of  it  beyond  the 
splendour  of  the  story  is  the  necessity  of  a  leader. 
There  were  no  finer  troops  in  the  world  than  the 
Union  soldiers,  but  there  must  be  a  controlling 
power.  I  can't  understand  how  a  Divinity  can  be 
questioned  when  we  recognise  this  great  necessity 
in  all  the  kingdoms  which  make  up  the  universe. 
I  don't  care  whether  it  is  a  male  or  a  female  head 

(I  tell  this  to  W often  who  thinks  it  should  be 

a  male)  but  a  household  or  an  army,  a  nation  or  a 
sphere  can't  go  far  without  one. 

It  is  all  very  well  for  me  to  speak  lightly  of  these 
armies  remeeting  at  Cedar  Creek  on  that  day  of 
October,  1864,  but  there  wasn't  anything  funny 
about  it  then.  It  is  never  funny  to  us  now  when  the 
commemorating  shafts  of  marble  begin.  The  sun 
was  beaming  as  we  descended  at  the  creek,  and 
every  flower  of  the  season  was  lifting  its  head  to 
peep  at  the  glory.  Spring  was  in  full  blossom  here. 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

We  had  driven  out  of  the  cold  straight  into  the 
heart  of  it  as  one  turns  undeviatingly  to  the  splen- 
did warmth  of  a  friend  when  trouble  is  our  portion. 
There  had  been  lilacs  as  early  in  the  day  as  Stras- 
burg,  and  the  hills  were  pink  and  white  with  the 
glowing  tree  which  seems  to  have  no  name.  But 
on  the  banks  of  Cedar  Creek  was  a  blue  flower 
which  made  me  catch  my  breath,  and  my  brain 
whirled  a  little. 

I  don't  know,  now,  whether  it  is  all  a  dream — my 
seeing  these  blue  flowers  before.  But  I  remember 
(it's  another  "  I  remember  ")  one  Sunday  morning 
we  didn't  go  to  church — and  that  was  remarkable 
enough.  All  of  us  got  in  the  carriage  with  Black 
Bess  in  the  shafts  and  we  drove  far  out  into  the 
country  to  a  creek.  Flowers  were  blooming,  blue- 
bells they  must  have  been,  just  like  the  flowers  of 
Cedar  Creek.  It  was  so  lovely — not  being  in 
church — and  so  lovely  anyway,  that  I  have  often 
tried  to  find  the  same  spot  when  I  have  gone  back 
home.  But  I  have  never  had  a  trace  of  it,  and  my 
father  isn't  here  any  longer,  and  my  mother  doesn't 
know  what  I  am  talking  about.  "  Didn't  go  to 
church? "  she  repeats. 

Yet  I  had  always  felt  that  I  would  see  it  again, 
and  so  I  caught  my  breath  when  we  came  to  this 
battleground  fulfilling  entirely  my  sweet  old  pic- 
ture that  has  faded  from  all  memories  but  mine.  I 

-*- 134  -J- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

don't  know  what  it "  means  " — if  it  means  anything 
— this  deep  longing  to  realise  again  that  happy 
landscape,  and  to  discover  its  only  satisfactory  rep- 
lica to  be  a  battlefield.  Unless — after  many  years 
of  life — I  would  not  find  complete  contentment  in 
a  stretch  of  earth  which  held  no  sorrow.  I  may 
have  often  passed  the  place  at  home  and  never 
known  it,  for  I  could  no  longer  recognise  as  beauti- 
ful— nor  as  mine — a  nameless  creek  and  bluebells 
without  meaning.  But  here  I  stooped  and  picked 
the  flowers  with  some  small  understanding  of  bleed- 
ing wounds.  What  does  old  Omar  say: 

ff  I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 

The  rose  as  where  some  buried  Ccesar  bled; 
That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely 
Head/' 

There  was  another  high  shaft  beyond  here,  yet  I 
cannot  remember  exactly  where  we  passed  it.  "  To 
all  Confederates,"  ran  the  offering.  It  rose  from 
out  the  grain  with  no  Sheridan  to  trample  it,  and 
again  the  old  striving  for  the  answers  to  life  op- 
pressed me.  Why  should  God's  food  for  His  peo- 
ple be  deliberately  destroyed  in  time  of  war  ?  Why 
should  this  be  if  war  is  not  destructive?  Why 
should  the  grain  die  before  its  purpose  is  fulfilled 
or  young  men  go  before  their  fruition?  How  I 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

long  to  live  to  see  the  spiritual  development  from 
this  present-day  annihilation  of  the  body!  Alas  I 
It  seems  that  only  the  spirit  will  be  left. 

Some  distance  beyond  the  battleground  we  our- 
selves were  met  by  an  opposing  force  which  stood 
valiantly  in  the  middle  of  a  bridge  we  were  crossing 
and  waved  for  us  to  stop.  It  was  a  petticoat  power, 
the  whole  costume  a  glare  of  red,  yet  we  all  felt 
guilty  as  we  lessened  our  speed,  wondering  if  one  of 
the  constables  had  so  disguised  himself.  Coming 
nearer  we  found  the  flaring  beacon  to  be  an  un- 
usually pretty  gypsy  begging  in  broken  English 
that  we  assist  her  band.  There,  just  beyond  the 
bridge  we  came  upon  the  Romany  up-to-date. 
They  were  all  packed  into  three  old  automobiles, 
probably  stolen  since  purloining  little  boys  has  gone 
out  of  fashion,  and  not  one  of  the  cars  would,  as 
the  French  say,  "  march." 

I  suppose  they  were  full  of  water  from  the  heavy 
rains  for  we  knew  as  much  about  it — and  more — 
as  the  gypsies  themselves.  A  very  handsome  young 
man,  a  woman  with  a  baby  and  an  old  crone  smok- 
ing a  pipe  were  pushing  one  car  about  in  vain  cir- 
cles, all  of  them  shrieking  with  laughter,  while  a  fine 
Romany  patriarch  looked  on  majestically  and  did 
nothing.  They  spoke  almost  no  English,  the  young 
man  shouting  at  us  as  though  we  were  deaf,  "  Car- 
bur-et-or  no  go."  It  would  have  been  a  very  dismal 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

situation  for  me,  with  all  the  bedding  piled  into  the 
tonneaus  as  wet  as  the  magnetos  evidently  were, 

and  for  the  sake  of  old  days  when  W and  I 

would  spend  many  an  hour  on  foreign  waysides 
looking  appealingly  at  passing  motors  I  impor- 
tuned both  of  the  men  to  do  what  they  could  for 
the  strangers  in  a  strange  land. 

They  flung  themselves  upon  the  machines,  al- 
though they  appreciated  that  very  little  could  be  ac- 
complished until  the  coil  dried  out,  and  I  was  im- 
mediately surrounded  by  the  women  and  children. 
I  gave  the  one  with  the  baby  half  a  dollar  that  I 
might  escape  further  grafting,  and  out  of  grati- 
tude, so  she  said,  the  beautiful  young  girl  began  to 
tell  my  fortune.  I  did  not  wish  to  hear  anything 
about  a  handsome  blond  man,  as  that  might  set  me 
to  looking  for  him,  but  she  was  persistent.  She  was 
persistent  to  the  point  of  asking  for  a  silver  piece 
— which  she  would  return — the  better  to  read  my 
palm,  and  I  watched  her  with  amusement  as  she 
abstracted  from  my  purse,  under  cover  of  my  hand- 
kerchief, several  coins  and  proceeded  to  distribute 
them  over  her  person. 

To  quote  the  Illustrator  this  awkward  thieving 
was  very  "  rough  stuff  "  for  a  Romany,  or  possibly 
the  green  goods  men  of  today  find  opponents 
equally  keen  in  city  folk.  I  have  always  said  that 
I  would  know  when  my  pocket  was  being  picked, 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

and  I  not  only  knew  this  but  felt  sorry  for  her 
incapacity. 

When  she  had  finished  telling  me  about  the 
blond  young  man  who  was  not  as  distracting  as 
she  had  imagined  he  would  be,  I  asked  her  to  re- 
place the  money.  In  fact  I  commanded  her  to  put 
back  the  money.  My  blood  was  up.  I  come  of 
fighting  ancestors  even  if  I  don't  wear  buttons  and 
badges.  My  language  was  not  elegant  nor  could 
she  understand  anything  but  the  primeval  anger 
that  lay  behind  it. 

"  Put  back  that  quarter  up  your  right  sleeve. 
You  have  a  lot  of  cheek  with  my  men  helping  your 
men.  Stop  palming  that  half  dollar  in  your  left 
hand.  Drop  it  in  the  purse.  Is  this  the  gratitude 
of  the  Zingara?  And  I  used  to  sing  songs  about 
you.  Now  that  ten  cent  piece  between  your  fingers. 
No,  I  didn't  say  you  could  have  it."  I  called  the  Il- 
lustrator and  the  two  men  got  into  the  car.  The 
self  starter  started.  She  stepped  off  the  running 
board,  her  face  contorted  with  rage.  "  Now  we're 
going  to  leave  you,  leave  you  flat.  And  here's 
something  for  you  to  reflect  upon:  Where  are  the 
Rubes  of  yesterday? " 

We  went  on  up  the  Valley,  the  occupants  of  the 
car  admiring  me  hugely  and  not  aware  that  I  was  as 
scared  as  possible.  Perhaps  all  the  valiant  ones 
are  really  terrified,  those  who  control  howling 

-»- 138  -*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

mobs,  calm  rebellious  directors'  meetings,  or  sub- 
due cooks  on  the  eve  of  a  dinner  party.  Perhaps 
(since  I  am  wedging  myself  into  that  class)  they're 
all  the  more  valiant  for  entertaining  fear. 

One  passion  merges  itself  into  another,  or  pos- 
sibly all  passions  are  the  same  with  different 
names.  I  know  that  I  found  myself  hungry  as  we 
approached  Harrisonburg,  hungry  enough  to  eat  a 
gypsy  or  anything  these  small  towns  along  the  way 
had  to  offer.  It  speaks  well  for  the  loveliness  of 
the  broad  acres,  the  Appalachian  range  on  our 
right,  the  Blue  Ridge  on  our  left,  that  we  had  run 
past  the  dinner  hour,  which  is  a  very  serious  mat- 
ter in  America  if  we  wish  to  dine.  But  the  villages 
after  Middletown,  where  there  is  a  fine  inn,  had 
little  to  offer  beyond  repeated  notices  of  "  ice  cream 
and  ham." 

Architecturally  they  are  bereft  of  beauty.  Mag- 
nificent Georgian  houses  set  far  back  from  the  road 
are  on  either  side,  but  they  alone  seemed  to  have 
escaped  the  devastation  of  Phil  Sheridan.  That  is, 
I  imagine  the  houses  in  the  towns  must  have  been 
destroyed,  and  the  South  struggling  for  a  new  life 
began  to  breathe,  unfortunately,  during  a  period 
when  architecture  was  at  its  worst.  New  ones  are 
going  up  now  with  mean  doors,  narrow  windows, 
and  meagre  porches.  If  I  had  a  million  dollars  I 
would  apply  some  of  it  to  the  development  of  taste 

-j-139-*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

among  the  manufacturers  of  stock  sizes  in  window 
sashes,  door  frames,  and  general  ornamentation.  To 
build  cheaply  one  must  use  these  factory  made  ar- 
ticles, and  if  a  new  householder  would  only  take  the 
trouble,  he  could  find  in  some  of  the  work  shops  of 
the  Middle  West  these  essentials  built  with  graceful 
proportions.  (I  am  not  getting  anything  for  this 
— not  even  to  Harrisonburg  for  luncheon.) 

When  we  did  get  there  the  hotel  dining  room  had 
been  closed  fifteen  minutes  and  Gabriel's  trump 
couldn't  have  opened  it.  I  made  a  polite  speech  to 
the  proprietor.  I  said  he  advertised  as  catering 
to  motorists,  that  the  arrival  of  this  new  vehicle  of 
travel  brought  prosperity  to  a  community,  and  it 
would  create  a  pleasant  feeling  between  host  and 
guest  if  there  could  be  some  arrangement  made  to 
entertain  us  no  matter  how  simply.  And  while  it 
made  no  impression  upon  him  I  am  glad  I  made 
this  speech  as  it  gives  me  the  opportunity  of  re- 
peating it  here. 

We  all  recognise  that  under  the  present  mode  of 
running  a  hotel,  cooks  rake  their  fires  as  the  dining 
room  door  slams  and  there  is  no  reason  why  they 
should  linger.  Now  if  a  hotel  could  only  employ  a 
tweeny !  A  tweeny  is  that  little  scrap  of  humanity 
who  lives  in  English  houses,  and  does  the  work  "  be- 
tween "  the  tasks  not  definitely  belonging  to  the 
graded  servants.  If  we  had  her  the  automobilist 

-+ 140  -«- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

might  be  sure  of  a  dish  of  tinned  soup,  cold  meat, 
and  bread  and  butter.  Also  the  coffee  might  be 
"  het  up."  Personally,  I  wouldn't  entertain  the 
idea  for  a  moment  if  I  were  a  girl,  as  tweenies  ap- 
pear to  do  all  the  work  of  a  vast  establishment.  But 
I  am  very  sympathetically  inclined  today  toward 
those  who  have  to  do  housework.  I  shall  not  say 
why,  but  I  shall  never  again  wonder  how  it  can 
take  so  long  to  wash  up  a  few  cups,  nor  will  I  let 
the  new  one  coming  in  wait  until  Saturday  just  be- 
cause Friday  means  "  short  stay." 

A  friendly  bell  boy  who  mistook  the  chauffeur 
for  the  owner,  directed  us  to  Friddle's  restaurant, 
whispering  that  it  was  all  just  as  well.  And  it 
turned  out  to  be  so,  for  Mr.  Friddle  sat  on  a  high 
stool  and  entertained  us  as  we  ate,  reading  out  bits 
from  the  Harrisonburg  paper.  There  was  a  troupe 
in  town.  One  of  them  had  had  a  dollar  "  frisked  " 
from  him  by  a  beautiful  gypsy  and  couldn't  get  it 
back.  This  put  me  in  a  glow  of  satisfaction  and  I 
implored  him  to  read  on. 

There  was  a  great  deal  about  the  troupe  in  the 
paper.  They  were  advertising  for  chorus  girls. 
We  asked  him  if  he  didn't  think  the  company  would 
use  this  home  talent  only  for  the  week  as  a  method 
of  bringing  their  friends  to  see  the  performance 
and  he  showed  by  his  shocked  negative  that  he  was 
not  alive  to  the  advertising  schemes  of  managers. 

-*- 141  •+- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

He  even  read  to  us  that  on  the  last  evening  of  the 
show  two  of  the  company,  Miss  Pearl  Morella  and 
Mr.  Arturo  Smithson  would  wed  on  the  stage  of 
the  opera  house  and  the  entire  audience  would  be 
invited  to  remain.  It  was  a  romance  of  a  year's 
standing.  They  would  appear  every  night  before 
the  marriage  in  their  accustomed  roles.  He  was 
a  nice  young  man,  so-  pleased  that  Miss  Pearl  was 
to  become  Mrs.  Smithson  that  I  hadn't  the  heart 
to  suggest  they  got  married  the  last  night  in  every 
town  with  the  audience  invited  to  remain.  But  I 
was  glad  that  Mr.  Friddle  and  his  silver  hadn't 
encountered  that  girl  of  the  Romany  Rye. 

The  industrious  motor  bound  for  Warm  or  Hot 
Springs  makes  the  run  from  Winchester  to  Staun- 
ton  and  from  there  crosses  the  mountains  to  the 
springs  in  a  day.  But  as  long  as  we  grasshopper 
ourselves  through  life  I  don't  suppose  we  will  ever 
make  any  time,  or  hay,  or  anything  to  keep  one 
alive  when  one  grows  old.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon as  we  neared  Staunton.  We  had  avoided  an 
alluring  advertisement  to  visit  grottoes  at  the  left 
on  a  road  all  "  McAdam,"  but  we  had  stopped  to 
photograph  apple  trees  with  small  boys  under  them 
and  "  Toby  with  Blue  Ridge  in  Distance,"  and  a 
beautiful  old  red  brick  house  which  would  have 
done  for  Elsie  Dinsmore  except  that  there  were 
chickens  in  the  front  yard. 


""£ ----- 

^W^flP^TO'L3^^ 

•   ,-^.-B-  --•)  -53 -.  v  jp&  /  Jjf '  I  X  y . 'X; •• 


M(fc\.TS«     rtftUK 

•ST*«UTO«  ft»^.  ib"1  ib 


THE  IVY-CLAD  TOWER  OF  TRINITY  CHURCH,  STAUNTON 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

As  we  went  up  the  ninety- four  miles  of  this  mag- 
nificent pike  I  grew  very  uneasy  over  finding — ever 
— anything  better  than  Elsie's  Roselands  on  ac- 
count of  these  chickens  and,  in  some  instances,  pigs. 
Yet  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  Elsie's  yard  may 
have  had  chickens  and  pigs,  only  they  were  never 
spoken  of.  Possibly  these  homely  creatures  may 
be  part  of  the  equipment  of  a  real  old  Southern 
place.  Personally  I  would  not  object  to  pigs  as 
cute  as  these.  Their  colours  were  neatly  halved  like 
little  boys  in  black  trousers  and  white  shirts.  It  is 
only  when  they  grow  old  they  lose  their  charm,  just 
like  men  and  we  have  to  accept  them  all  the  same. 
There  was  a  stern  air  about  Staunton,  rather,  just 
before  it.  Boys  in  grey  uniforms  saluted  us  vigor- 
ously, trying  to  hide  their  school  books  as  they 
marched  by  in  military  order.  This  is  the  neighbour- 
hood of  good  schools.  Indeed  the  finest  buildings 
along  the  run  were  for  schools,  newly  built,  of  ex- 
cellent architecture  and  full  of  heads  with  bows  of 
ribbon  on  them,  for  we  could  see  just  so  much  and 
the  little  girls  could  see  even  less. 

Poor  mites !  Except  for  the  Child  Wonder  back 
in  Winchester,  a  school  is  a  place  of  torture  no  mat- 
ter how  you  dress  it  up.  One  can  be  in  uniform, 
or  under  the  Gary  plan  or  living  the  carefree  ex- 
istence of  the  Montessori  system,  but  when  one  has 
to  be  at  a  certain  place  a  certain  time  life  is  pretty 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

hard.  "  You  are  naturally  prejudiced,"  says  the  Il- 
lustrator. He  knows  of  that  shameful  effort  of 
mine  to  pass  in  arithmetic  when  with  a  hundred  for 
the  topmost  mark,  I  received  two.  I  have  never 
learned  what  I  got  right. 

But  here  is  Staunton.  "  Just  get  there  anyway," 

advises  W .  We  go  down  a  hill.  The  car  is 

looking  very  pretty.  The  chauffeur  has  thrust 
sprays  of  the  lovely  pink  tree  into  the  pockets,  and 

it  was  I  who  asked  to  have  the  top  down.  W 

stared  at  me  bewildered,  knowing  that  I  had  no  um- 
brella in  case  of  little  whirls  of  rain.  Still  I,  too, 
am  beginning  to  like  to  "  see  up  "  as  he  puts  it.  I 
suppose  as  we  are  growing  old  together  we  are  be- 
ginning to  think  alike,  and  while  it  would  be  much 
better  for  the  world  if  he  would  only  think  as  I  do, 
failing  in  this  I  follow  in  his  mental  footsteps. 

We  diverge  occasionally.  When  we  reached  the 
hotel  he  thought  I  should  not  go  in  and  ask  the  clerk 
the  name  of  the  pink  flower,  whereas  I  thought  an 
armful  of  it  might  screen  Toby.  We  had  heard 
of  fierce  anti-dog  rules.  He  was  right.  The  clerk 
as  he  leaned  over  to  examine  the  corolla  or  whatever 
the  thing  is,  spied  our  dear  little  friend  hiding  se- 
renely on  the  lee  side  of  the  desk  far  away  from 
storms.  So  we  were  turned  away,  finding  shelter 
in  the  hostelry  where  President  Wilson  always 
stops. 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

I  went  out  into  the  streets  for  historical  pur- 
poses. The  mahogany  was  quite  expensive  and 
very  little  of  it.  But  I  particularly  wanted  one  of 
those  old  settees  of  painted  wood  which  we  found 
on  the  porches.  They  were  not  in  the  shops,  and  I 
feared  to  ask  a  Southern  householder  about  the  pos- 
sibility of  her  disposing  of  them,  for  she  might  burst 
into  tears  or  flames,  and  I  should  be  either 
quenched  or  incinerated. 

However  there  was  Hollo  College  to  distract  me. 
A  Staunton  gentleman  and  I  talked  a  long  time  on 
the  hill  wondering  if  the  Rollo  books  could  have 
come  from  the  school.  One  need  never  be  afraid 
to  jest  with  a  Southern  gentleman.  He  thought  I 
was  staying  on  to  talk  because  I  liked  him  but  it 
was  really  on  account  of  my  dismal  room.  Yet  I 
came  home — home,  I  have  to  call  it — with  a  bottle 
of  gasoline  bought  at  a  pharmacy.  A  woman  can 
travel  perilously  near  gallons  of  gasoline  yet  cannot 
get  a  pint  for  her  hair.  The  young  man  who  waited 
on  me  ran  to  open  the  door.  It  was  pitiful  to  hear 
me  down  there  responding  to  attentions  which  a 
Southern  woman  would  accept  as  a  matter  of 
course.  "  Oh,  thank  you — you're  very  kind — much 
obliged,  I  am  sure — don't  trouble — not  at  all,"  I  go 
chattering  up  the  street. 

Night  came,  a  chilly  rainy  night.  The  windows 
were  all  open  in  my  bare  room  when  the  Illustra- 

-1-145-*- 


THE  SHENANDOAH  VALLEY  AND  A  SHAMPOO 

tor  came  in.  He  had  been  out  "  siccing  "  Toby  on 
the  hotel  opposite.  My  hair  was  over  my  shoulders, 
smelling  horribly.  My  cleaned  hat  was  on  the  win- 
dow sill.  My  coat  collars  were  redolent  of  gasoline. 

'  What,"  demanded  he,  "  are  you  doing  in  this 
cold?" 

"  I  am  getting  ready  for  Hot  Springs,"  I  re- 
plied. 


146 


CHAPTER  VIII 

And  Here  We  Figure  Largely  as  a  Circus,  Then 

Fold  Our  Tents  and  Steal  into  Muddy, 

Mountainous  Adventuring 

WE  have  always  found  it  as  difficult  to  leave  a 
town  as  to  reach  it,  but  our  efforts  to  quit  Staun- 
ton  were  unusually  retarded  by  a  combination  of 
circus  and  art  student.  The  art  student  came  first, 
urged  on,  I  fancy,  by  the  chauffeur  who  had  met 
him  the  night  before  and  had  added  to  his  artistic 
development  by  treating  him  to  a  moving  picture 
show. 

He  brought  his  sketches  to  the  hotel  which  was 
very  hard  on  the  Illustrator,  as  he  wanted  to  say 
they  were  good  yet  found  them  not  promising.  He 
skated  about  it  kindly.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  the 
blunt  truth,  anyway,  to  one  of  artistic  endeavour — 
if  not  of  talent.  You  are  simply  not  believed. 
There  are  two  attributes  in  the  student  who  has  a 
leaning  toward  the  arts.  He  is  highly  sensitive, 
yet  at  the  same  time  his  heart  is  invulnerable  to 
criticism.  One  need  not  put  this  down  as  vanity. 
I  think  this  pride  in  himself,  in  his  work,  is  clearly 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

created  to  offset  the  sufferings  that  most  of  the 
artists  go  through  before  the  door  of  fame  is 
opened.  And  if  it  is  never  opened,  this  compensat- 
ing quality  offsets  the  grief,  'translating  the  lack 
of  recognition  into  the  opposition  of  ignorance  or 
jealousy. 

It  is  amazing  what  an  art  student  will  suffer  to 
gain  an  education  when  such  indifferent  attempts 
are  made  to  learn  a  trade.  If  this  bright  boy  in 
Staunton  would  bend  one  half  of  his  heroic  ef- 
forts to  save  money  for  the  mastery  of  a  business 
we  might  find  his  name  in  big  letters  the  next  time 
we  went  up  the  Valley.  But  what's  the  use  ?  They 
said  that  to  us  once — to  the  Illustrator  and  myself 
— and  we  didn't  listen. 

W took  him  out  for  a  drive  to  see  how  he  felt 

about  composition  while  he  sketched  an  old  church, 
and  Toby  and  I  started  off  to  secure  luncheon  for 
the  sixty-four  villageless  miles  across  the  moun- 
tains. The  chicken  and  ham  sandwiches  would 
probably  have  grown  into  a  very  successful  order 
had  not  the  proprietor  of  the  cafe  suddenly  burst 
at  me  with:  "  Will  you  tell  me,  ma'am,  what  that 
kind  of  a  dog  is  good  for?"  And  this  so  embar- 
rassed both  Toby  and  me  that  we  rushed  out  of  the 
establishment,  for  he  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that 
he  is  not  good  for  anything  except  to  be  loved  and 
to  love  us.  And  that  is  the  real  reason  there  wasn't 

-j-148-e- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

any  pie  or  root  beer  or  crackers  and  cheese  or 
green  bananas  when  it  came  time  to  eat. 

I  understand  now  that  the  restaurateur  mistook 
our  position  in  life — he  was  as  the  little  boys  in 
Frederick  who  had  expressed  themselves  more 
boldly  concerning  Toby's  profession.  An  old  col- 
oured woman  outside  the  door  elucidated  the  situa- 
tion slightly  by  wanting  to  know  if  "he  slep  in  de 
caige,"  but  even  then  I  didn't  hitch  up  Toby  with 
the  event  occasioning  the  gala  air  of  the  streets.  It 
was  near  the  Court  House  that  we  watched  a  long 
file  of  soberly  clad  citizens  pass  by.  I  stood  among 
the  loafers  admiring  the  dignity  of  what  I  took  to 
be  the  makers  of  our  laws  and  those  who  sit  in 
judgment  on  us.  Eager  to  pay  a  compliment  to 
the  citizens  of  Staunton  I  remarked  upon  their 
excellent  appearance. 

"  Court  and  jury?  "  I  questioned  politely. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  replied  the  loafer.  "  That's  the 
insane  asylum  going  to  the  circus." 

We  left  the  town  shortly  afterwards  with  our 
position  in  life  firmly  established.  Giving  Toby 
this  preliminary  parade  sowed  the  wind,  our  head- 
ing the  procession  reaped  the  whirlwind.  We  had 
not  intended  to  head  the  procession.  Our  car  had 
started  to  turn  from  the  side  street  where  the  hotel 
stood  into  the  main  thoroughfare  before  we  appre- 
ciated that  the  traffic  had  ceased  and  that  the  great 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

red  and  gold  band  wagon  had  already  passed. 
There  was  a  hiatus  between  this  band  wagon  and 
the  elephants,  and  the  ever  courteous  Southern 
policeman  seeing  us  with  our  baggage  strapped  on, 
wished  to  speed  our  departure  by  slipping  us  into 
this  space. 

When  we  were  once  in  we  could  not  get  out.  I 
won't  say  that  Toby  and  I  cared  to  get  out.  This 
circus  idea  had  been  forced  upon  us  and  we  ac- 
cepted it,  but  the  Illustrator's  face  was  pitiful. 

"  Are  we  going  to  make  monkeys  of  ourselves 
all  our  lives?"  he  asked  me,  the  perspiration  roll- 
ing down  his  face. 

"  Not  monkeys,"  I  shouted,  for  the  band  had 
struck  up.  '  They  think  we're  the  proprietors. 
The  monkeys  are  in  the  wagons.  We  really  ought 
to  be  throwing  out  handbills." 

"Do  I  look  like  the  proprietor  of  a  circus?" 
he  roared  back  as  coldly  as  one  can  roar. 

He  had  on  a  green  plaid  overcoat  with  a  yellow 
leather  lining.  "  Yes,  you  do,"  I  was  obliged  to 
confess. 

"  Oh,  my  Lord !    When  can  we  turn  off?  " 

It  was  a  long  block.  The  band  blared,  the  ele- 
phants swung  their  trunks  and  the  camels  coughed. 
Staunton  thick  along  the  wayside  stared  at  us  re- 
spectfully, and  Toby  leaning  with  studied  ease  on 
his  elbow,  stared  at  them.  I  sat  back  luxuriously, 

-j-150-e- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

and  since  W had  his  eyes  shut,  bowed  to  the 

people.  The  dream  of  my  early  life  had  been  real- 
ised— all  but  the  spangles. 

It  was  very  dull  after  this  to  go  up  the  hill  toward 
such  a  respectable  place  as  Churchville,  and  we 
were  in  no  hurry  to  reach  it  for  the  good  road  ended 
there  as  even  a  hotel  proprietor  is  forced  to  admit. 
A  jolly  old  lady  took  our  toll  just  outside  of  Staun- 
ton.  She  said  she'd  rather  starve  than  toll  a  road 
which  wasn't  worth  the  money,  but  she  wanted  us 
to  know  that  her  tax  on  us  endured  only  to  Church- 
ville. There  is  no  macadam  encouragement  to  at- 
tend divine  services  in  the  town  if  you  come  from 
the  mountains,  and  it  speaks  well  for  the  devotion 
of  the  people  that  they  have  established  so  many 
houses  of  worship  at  this  point.  This  was  a  great 
Indian  country,  yet  they  met  in  spite  of  the  hostile 
natives.  Danger  seems  to  give  a  fillip  to  religion, 
and  it  might  be  a  good  idea  in  the  lax  present- 
day  worshipping  to  more  than  hint  that  there 
are  Indians  behind  every  lamp  post  on  Fifth 
Avenue. 

Mud,  the  modern  excuse  in  the  mountains,  seems 
to  have  no  effect  upon  them.  They  just  splash 
along  in  their  little  motor  cars  as  though  it  were  a 
pleasure  and  pleasure  lay  ahead  of  them.  Indeed  I 
have  about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  we  are  the 
"  short  sports  "  concerning  motoring,  not  the  aver- 

-J-151-*- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

age  American  who  travels  widely  by  automobile  in 
his  country.  Possibly  it  is  because  ("  repeating  " 
here)  they  know  nothing  better,  but  we  found  the 
great  motor  cars  arriving  at  Hot  Springs  with  their 
full  equipment  of  ropes,  block,  and  tackle,  what- 
you-will  for  pulling  themselves  out  of  the  mud  and 
feeling  no  particular  alarm  that  the  going  was  poor. 

And  there  was  mud.  To  be  sure  we  were  cross- 
ing the  mountains  after  the  hardest  rains  the  coun- 
try had  known  for  years,  and  in  a  renewed  down- 
pour which  began  promptly  with  the  already  ooz- 
ing clay.  I  understand  that  the  road  is  quite  pass- 
able in  dry  weather  and  it  is  possible  at  all  times. 
The  grading  is  much  better  than  that  of  the  Green 
Mountains,  and  part  of  it  was  engineered  by 
Claude  Crozet  who,  after  Napoleon's  downfall, 
came  to  Virginia,  and  was  appointed  state  engineer. 
It  is  rather  sad  to  see  a  Napoleonic  road  making 
so  poor  an  appearance,  like  a  fine  mind  which  has 
been  denied  cultivation.  And  I  am  sure  a  few  thou- 
sand dollars'  worth  of  blue  stone  would  largely 
overcome  the  difficulties  of  travel. 

I  never  admired  blue  stone  as  I  did  on  this  South- 
ern trip.  One  could  see  patches  of  it  far  ahead  on 
the  hills,  rendered  pallid  by  the  wet  yellow  clay 
which  would  preface  and  follow  it.  The  water  rolls 
off  it  like  a  base  prevarication  off  my  lips  when  I 
grow  sympathetic — an  admirable  stone! 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

We  stopped  at  Jenning's  Gap  to  take  a  picture 
because  Jenning's  Gap  looked  as  it  should.  How 
splendidly  fitting  are  mountain  names  in  Virginia: 
Lone  Fountain,  Windy  Cove,  Panther  Gap,  Cow- 
pasture  River.  And  the  thing  that  surprised  me 
most  about  the  Virginia  Mountains  was  their  look- 
ing as  I  had  expected  them  to  look.  There  was 
the  same  spare  growth,  yellow  roads,  rock  forma- 
tions, the  women  working  over  big  kettles  in  front 
of  their  log  houses,  the  tall  lank  men,  the  many 
lean  curs — all  as  I  had  imagined  it.  This  correct 
mental  vision  must  have  come  from  reading  of 
mountain  life,  and  while  I  frequently  skip  descrip- 
tion (as  you  are  probably  doing  now)  one  can't 
avoid  entirely  forming  an  impression  of  a  true 
background  if  the  foreground — the  he-saids  and  the 
she-saids — is  equally  true. 

A  big  fellow  at  Jenning's  Gap  advised  us  to  ask 
continually  about  the  rivers  we  must  ford,  as  the 
streams  were  quite  high  and  we  might  have  to  make 
a  detour.  But  we  stopped  to  talk  with  a  fire  war- 
den as  we  neared  one  danger  spot  further  on  in  the 
mountains,  and  he  said  the  cars  could  get  through 
always  if  they  would  go  into  low  speed  and  not  do 
too  much  splashing.  It  almost  compensated  for 
bad  going,  this  stopping  along  the  way  to  advise  or 
be  advised.  We  can  all  do  so  well  without  one  an- 
other when  our  ways  in  life  are  easy.  Perhaps  it  is 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

a  compensation  for  our  miseries  that  we  get  this 
excitement  from  hazardous,  though  uncomfortable 
experiences. 

After  we  had  forded  the  two  rivers  that  were 
seriously  deep  we  met  a  large  blue  limousine  at  the 
side  of  the  road  waiting  for  the  occupants  to  eat 
their  luncheon  out  of  a  basket  vulgarly  capacious. 
I  was  hoping  something  would  distract  the  Illustra- 
tor's attention  from  the  lavish  display,  and  it  was 
held  by  the  approach  of  their  chauffeur.  He  had 
just  been  told  by  a  car  ahead  of  us  marked  Tour- 
ing Information  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  his 
car  to  ford  the  streams.  As  we  had  just  crossed 
them  he  was  much  relieved,  and  we  all  wondered 
how  Touring  Information  had  managed  them  it- 
self if  the  thing  couldn't  be  done.  I  did  not  know 
how  largely  this  car  so  marked  was  to  enter  into  my 
day,  but  its  lively  fancy  appealed  to  me  even  as 

W and  the  limousine  with  its  mouth  full  of 

pate  de  foie  gras  (figuratively  speaking)  depre- 
cated sensationalism. 

However,  I  agreed  heartily  with  anything  that 

W said  after  we  had  left  them,  with  the  view 

of  blotting  out  the  memory  of  the  pate  pasted  on 
the  crisp  biscuit  which  they  had  been  champing. 
"  Kind  hearts  are  more  than  cr acker ettes,"  was  a 
plank  in  my  platform.  It  might  have  worked  had 
not  we  suddenly  come  upon  Touring  Information 

-*- 154  -<- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

in  front  of  the  village  store  at  Deerfield  nibbling 
away  at  the  best  the  shelves  had  to  offer. 

Touring  Information  was  the  oldest  car  in  the 
world  containing  two  of  the  youngest  inhabitants 
of  the  globe.  They  were  stamped  bride  and  groom 
without  the  addition  of  a  white  bow  of  ribbon  any- 
where upon  the  ancient  rigging.  "  How  do  you 
like  it?  "  called  the  bridegroom  to  us  cheerily  as  we 
peeped  at  them  through  the  rain. 

"  Fierce,"  answered  my  consort.  We  were  past 
them  in  a  trice,  but  I  was  not  past  the  Illustrator. 
"  Fierce,"  he  repeated,  turning  to  me,  "  fierce  that 
every  one  should  be  eating  and  we  have  only  three 
sandwiches.  Did  you  see  that  young  couple,  even 
poorer  than  we  are,  having  a  nice  lunch?  " 

"  Nice  to  them,"  I  returned,  "  but  it  wouldn't 
be  nice  to  us." 

"Why  not?" 

Why  not  indeed!  Why  should  we  not  be  born 
ugly  babies  and  grow  more  beautiful  as  we  grow 
older !  Why  do  our  dispositions  and  digestions  not 
improve  as  knowledge  grows  in  the  control  of  them ! 
Why  should  youth  be  the  sauce  to  make  palatable 
the  disagreeable  instead  of  old  age,  which  is  rich 
in  a  philosophy  only  to  be  acquired  by  growth. 
I  suppose  the  sense  of  taste  is  the  single  one  that 
does  not  wither  and  leave  us,  and  out  of  gratitude 
we  "  old  'uns  "  feel  that  it  should  be  catered  to. 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

I  was  ready  for  the  Illustrator  with  blandish- 
ments. I  said  that  the  three  sandwiches  were  for 
stop  gaps,  not  for  luncheon.  I  had  thought  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  dine  with  some  of  the  moun- 
tain people. 

"Dine  with  'em?"  he  repeated,  just  as  though 
he  did  not  know  about  Southern  hospitality. 

"  Certainly.  You  choose  a  house  where  you  want 
to  eat  and  I'll  go  in  and  arrange  it." 

With  a  promptness  that  was  disconcerting  he 
picked  out  the  one  we  were  going  by.  It  was  a 
pretty  little  house  but  he  gave  me  no  chance  to  pre- 
pare a  speech.  An  old  man  came  down  the  path 
with  that  detached  look  in  his  eyes  which  took  small 
interest  in  food.  He  might  have  been  a  bride- 
groom, and  he  shook  his  head  when  I  importuned 
him. 

1  You're  hyar  with  your  w'ite  dawg,  and  I'm 
hyar  with  my  black  dawg.  We  live  alone, 
leadin'  a  dawg's  life,  so  I  cain't  give  you  nothin' 
decent." 

"  Couldn't  you  manage  six  eggs? "  I  pressed,  as 
though  he  were  a  prize  hen. 

But  he  couldn't.  He  could  only  advise  us  to  go 
on  to  the  big  farm  house  where  they  would  do  the 
right  thing  by  folks  that  were  hungry.  I  suppose 

W was  looking  back  at  me  but  I  kept  my  eyes 

concentrated  on  the  view  the  isinglass  windows 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

afforded.  His  appearance  is  excellent,  but  there 
is  no  use  in  staring  at  the  man  all  the  time. 

I  had  my  speech  ready  at  the  next  house — it 
was  something  about  strangers  and  kindness  of  the 
road.  A  fine  large  woman  with  her  hair  over  her 
shoulders  came  out  on  the  side  porch  and  "  My 
goodness,"  I  said  instead,  "  you're  washing  your 
hair.  I  did  mine  last  night." 

We  became  as  thick  as  thieves  as  I  hung  over  the 
gate.  "  I  put  ammonia  in  the  water,"  she  said, 
"  and  it  makes  my  hair  so  fluffy  I  can't  do  anything 
with  it." 

"  For  days  I  can't  do  anything  with  mine  either." 

"  Ahem,"  said  W from  the  car. 

Millie  Elizabeth,  the  pretty  girl  who  helped,  had, 
also,  washed  her  hair,  but  they  both  put  on  caps, 
and,  since  it  was  long  past  the  dinner  hour,  started 
up  the  kitchen  fire  for  biscuit.  I  went  into  the  liv- 
ing room  with  the  two  little  girls,  Mary  Susan  and 
Annie  Harriet.  Annie  Harriet  had  never  liked  her 
middle  name  so  she  had  changed  it  from  "  Annie 
Haih-yet,"  as  she  pronounced  it,  to  "  Annie 
Rooney."  She  had  heard  the  song  somewhere  and 
now  it  was  written  down  in  all  her  school  books  as 
"  Annie  Runie."  Their  mother  said  there  had  been 
a  "  right  smart  discussion "  at  the  school,  for 
teacher  thought  it  was  spelled  "  Runey."  I  sang 
the  song  as  well  as  I  could  to  Mary  Susan  and  An- 

-e- 157  -f- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

nie  Haih-yet  while  the  rain  poured  down  outside, 
and  the  Illustrator  hung  out  of  the  car  talking  to 
Touring  Information,  which  was  through  its  lunch 
and  heading  for  Hot  Springs. 

I  told  them  how  I  had  gone  to  the  theatre  with  a 
beau  when  I  was  a  young  girl  and  heard  Bessie 

?  Bessie ?  the  name  has  left  me.  "  Are 

we  so  soon  forgotten,  then? "  said  old  Rip  Van 
Winkle.  I  heard  her  sing  it  for  the  first  time. 
And  I  had  picked  out  the  air  with  one  finger  on  the 
piano  when  I  reached  home,  awaking  an  irate  and 
unmusical  family. 

Annie  Haih-yet,  entertaining  me  in  turn,  told 
me  that  Mary  Susan  never  ate  anything  at  all — 
"Maw  jes  nachally  don't  know  what  to  do  aboot 
it."  Mary  Susan  enjoyed  this,  singling  out,  re- 
peating mournfully  "  Not  a  mite,  not  a  mite." 

She  took  little  interest  in  life  but  was  very  gentle 
and  sweet  (as  are  few  grown  up  invalids)  save  when 
a  small  boy  appeared  with  a  tin  pail,  when  she  said 
with  considerable  force :  "  Thar's  thet  mean  Paul 
Simmons  comin'  hyar  for  a  settin'  of  eggs."  Then 
she  looked  again.  "  No,  he's  ben  hyar.  He  ain't  a 
swingin'  the  pail." 

It  was  very  droll  to  chatter  with  these  children 
of  nine  and  eleven,  for  they  had  no  talk  of  dolls 
and  playthings.  They  looked  from  out  the  win- 
dows to  gossip  of  the  doings  of  the  road  just  as  all 

.-»- 158  -H-. 


THE  HOTEL  AT  HOT  SPRINGS— WIDE-WINGED  AXD 
WARM  IX  COLOUR 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

grown  ups  do,  no  matter  the  locality,  who  live  in 
the  country.  I  asked  them  if  they  didn't  each  have 
little  tasks  to  perform  but  they  had  nothing  at  all 
to  do,  no  long  seams  to  labour  over,  no  beds  to  make. 
It  was  nice  to  see  how  Mary  Susan  and  Annie 
Haih-yet  quieted  down  when  we  were  all  ushered 
into  the  bright  dining  room.  I  didn't  hear  a  word 
out  of  them  beyond  one  ecstatic  exclamation  from 
Annie  as  she  discovered  Toby:  "  Looks  like  a  little 
ole  wite  hawg,"  she  said. 

Millie  Elizabeth  passed  the  excellent  dishes  while 
our  hostess  sat  at  one  side  and  poured  the  coffee. 
She  and  the  Illustrator  discovered  that  they  were 
in  some  dim  way  kin  to  each  other,  which  was  mad- 
dening to  me  as  I  could  have  been  related  to  her  if 
I  had  only  thought  of  it  first.  However,  I  spoke 
of  my  ancestors  coming  from  Holland  and  settling 
in  Virginia,  which,  after  being  pressed  I  was 
obliged  to  admit  was  West  Virginia.  I  do  not  talk 
about  my  Virginia  ancestors  as  much  as  I  once  did. 
As  a  young  girl  I  had  the  fever  very  keenly  and  I 
remember  asking  an  old  family  friend  if  these  good 
Dutchmen  had  not  held  large  plantations.  "  No," 
he  drawled  with  the  mistaken  humour  of  those  in 
their  nonage,  "  they  were  all  slave  drivers."  But 
of  course  I  did  not  tell  that  to  my  hostess. 

It  was  hard  to  get  away.  We  were  all  having  a 
pleasant  time  except  Toby,  who  after  the  white 

-*- 159  -H 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

hog  epithet  was  rendered  even  less  spirited  by  a 
tortoise-shell  cat.  He  was  thoroughly  cowed — if  a 
.dog  can  be  cowed  by  a  cat — and  kept  asking  me 
"  Where  was  Hot  Springs  at? "  as  a  gentle  reminder. 

He  might  well  ask.  One  could  not  believe  it  pos- 
sible that  a  cluster  of  fashionable  hotels  lay  any- 
where in  these  wilds.  The  road  beyond  was  ad- 
mitted by  our  hostess  to  be  "  right  slick,"  and  there 
were  two  passes  to  cross  as  yet.  When  we  pre- 
pared to  leave  I  asked  if  she  did  not  care  to  hang  up 
a  shingle  as  the  only  eating  place  between  Staunton 
and  the  Springs  and  let  me  mention  her  name,  but 
she  said  she  was  heavy  on  her  feet  and  might  not 
be  able  to  serve  the  guests  if  Millie  Elizabeth  should 
go  away.  So  I  hope  that  all  who  read  this  will  take 
a  great  many  sandwiches  and  leave  her  alone.  She 
said  something  else  as  I  exclaimed  over  the  modest 
sum  for  her  trouble  and  the  outlay.  It  was  so 
charming  in  her  that  I  hope  no  one  will  notice  that 
it  was  also  charming  about  us.  "  Think  what  you 
gave  us  of  your  table,"  I  said. 

"  Think  what  you  gave  me  of  yourselves,"  she 
replied. 

This — and  the  food — made  W very  young 

again  and  he  started  after  Touring  Information 
with  the  incentive  that  a  pacemaker  always  gives. 

I  learned  from  him  that  the  car  was  not  giving 
information  (beyond  what  was  wrong  about  the 

-i-160-i- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

fords) ,  but  getting  it.  The  two  young  hearts  were 
spending  their  honeymoon  sign-posting  the  best 
way  to  Hot  Springs  for  the  automobile  club  of  a 
large  city.  The  back  of  the  tonneau  was  full  of 
neat  wooden  placards  with  the  names  of  the  town 
painted  thereon.  "  Danger  "  in  red,  arrows  with 
Hot  Springs  on  them,  like  the  banner  of  Excelsior, 
and  band  boxes  for  milady's  hats. 

As  their  honeymoon  was  just  as  important  as 
sign-posting  a  road  already  very  decently  marked, 
we  did  not  deplore  his  lack  of  activity  in  the  getting 
out  and  nailing  up  of  directions.  Yet  we  found 
some  evidences  of  effort  on  the  part  of  the  young 
man.  The  road  was  indeed  "  right  slick."  We  had 
not  put  on  our  chains  until  leaving  the  farm  house 
and  we  kept  pretty  well  out  of  the  ruts  by  careful 
driving.  But  it  was  thrilling  to  see  the  tracks  of 
the  lovers  ahead  of  us.  They  were  slewing,  slip- 
ping, and  bouncing  over  their  course,  and  at  one 
point  they  had  stopped  a  while.  This  was  where 
we  found  the  sign-posts,  not  on  the  trees  but  in  a 
mud  hole.  "  Winchester  22  mi."  had  served  for 
the  right  wheel ;  "  Sound  klaxon,"  badly  splintered 
yet  looking  up  at  us  as  one  whose  cause  is  just,  had 
helped  the  left  wheel  of  the  happy  pair. 

There  was  an  insouciance  about  the  use  of  these 
carefully  prepared  and  timely  hints  which  bred  in 
me  a  desire  to  know  better  the  gay  wreckers.  Our 

-«- 161  -*- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

eyes  were  fastened  to  the  marks  of  their  tires  in 
the  clay.  We  were  growing  warmer.  Toby  grew 
very  excited  and  thought  it  was  a  game.  "  In- 
dians !  "  he  exclaimed,  leaping  out  in  the  mud.  He 
was  marched  sternly  back,  but  returned  a  clay  dog 
with  a  new  and  terrible  inclination  to  sit  upon  my 
chest,  his  fore  feet  planted  on  the  Illustrator's  back. 
This  mode  of  savage  warfare  so  obscured  my  vis- 
ion that  I  did  not  see  Touring  Information  until 
we  had  run  alongside  it.  It  had  stopped  completely 
on  a  steep  hill. 

The  bridegroom  greeted  us  blithely:  "  I  think 
we're  out  of  gasoline,"  was  his  preface  as  un- 
concerned as  if  the  carburetor  had  drunk  its  last 
drop  before  a  garage.  We  were  ready  to  spare 
him  what  we  could,  but  he  found  out,  after  splitting 
up  "  To  White  Sulphur  Springs  "  and  using  it  to 
measure  by,  that  the  engine  had  stopped  only  be- 
cause it  was  hot  and  wished  to  rest. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  without  a  hatchet," 
the  young  man  had  said  chopping  away  merrily. 
"I'd  rather  be  without  extra  tires  than  a  hatchet 
on  a  long  trip.  Be  sure  the  brake  is  set,  dear  heart." 

Dear  heart  set  the  brake.  She  was  a  very  beau- 
tiful girl  with  her  husband's  rain  coat  on  no  doubt, 
as  he  had  none,  her  equipment  as  a  motorist  ending 
there  but  continuing  as  a  bride,  for  she  wore  pink 
silk  stockings  and  thin  slippers. 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

"  Have  to  watch  this  car,"  said  he,  beginning  to 
crank  it  with  no  results.  "  It  ran  down  hill  yes- 
terday and  stood  up  on  end,  its  nose  in  the  ditch — 
looked  perfectly  ridiculous.  Dangerous? — well 
perhaps.  She  wasn't  in  the  car." 

Some  mules  had  righted  the  car,  he  told  us.  And 
then  between  efforts  at  cranking  and  getting  his 
breath  we  spoke  of  the  courtesy  of  the  mountain 
roads.  It  was  not  the  motors  which  turned  out  for 
us,  but  the  wagons,  the  drivers  with  many  head  of 
cattle,  the  sheep  herder  and  the  men  with  strings 
of  colts.  The  spirit  of  resentment  that  is  occasion- 
ally met  with  in  the  Northern  farmer  is  not  found 
among  the  mountain  people.  It  would  seem  that 
those  who  are  remote  from  the  railway  have  a  sense 
of  camaraderie  for  the  fellow  travelling  the  same 
course.  I  can't  say  that  I've  noticed  it  on  a  jour- 
ney by  train. 

The  mud,  with  the  landscape,  grew  wilder  and 
wilder.  Our  two  cars  took  turn  ahead,  the  leader 
waiting  now  and  then  for  the  other  to  catch  up. 
We  were  rather  proud  that  we  held  to  the  road  so 
well  and  hesitated  only  momentarily  in  the  deep 
holes.  It  makes  me  feel  very  sorry  for  an  engine 
straining  to  do  its  level  best,  and  I  am  impatient 
when  they  are  shut  up  in  a  garage  after  a  hard 
day's  run  without  any  appreciative  oil  or  grease 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

or  kerosene  in  the  cylinders.  One  might  as  well  let 
a  horse  go  supperless  to  bed. 

Touring  Information  may  have  tried  to  do  its 
level  best,  but  it  was  only  at  its  best  on  the  level. 
Yet  we  managed  the  ascents,  stopping  to  breathe 
when  we  reached  the  summit  of  Warm  Springs 
Mountain.  The  rain  had  ceased,  it  was  almost 
sunset  and  if  we  hadn't  been  so  cold  the  view  would 
have  been  most  engaging.  There  is  nothing  that 
will  take  the  beauty  out  of  a  view  more  thoroughly 
than  a  chill  in  the  marrow  of  one's  bones.  The 
little  bride's  lips  were  blue,  but  she  had  taken  off 
her  rain  coat  and  was  going  to  make  the  descent 
into  Hot  Springs  looking  as  a  bride  should  if  she 
froze  to  death.  After  a  fierce  internal  admonition 
of  myself  to  be  generous  I  brought  out  our  cher- 
ished flask,  and  having  given  a  little  lecture  before- 
hand on  the  folly  of  a  chauffeur  drinking  I  offered 
them  the  stimulant.  The  bridegroom  had  no 
trouble  with  his  chauffeur  conscience  but  the  bride 
had  to  be  coaxed: 

"  Take  some,  honey,  you  look  so  white." 

"Ugh!    Will  it  burn?" 

"  That's  what  it  is  for,"  I  intervened  snappily. 

"  Take  a  big  drink,  honey  dear." 

("  My  whiskey,"  I  thought.) 

"  Will  it  taste  like  that  sherry  I  had? " 

"  It  will  taste  worse,"  I  said  firmly.     If  she 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

really  didn't  want  the  whiskey  it  was  foolish  to 
urge  it ;  but  he  was  insistent. 

'  Take  a  big  swallow,  darling,  take  two  big 
swallows." 

"  Yes,  do,"  from  me.  I  would  see  it  through,  but 
it  was  hard.  Why  should  she  be  so  young  and 
pretty  and  have  all  the  stimulant  too? 

To  be  fair  to  her  she  was  only  coaxed  into  three 
swallows  which  probably  "  saved  her  "  as  he  told  me 
gratefully.  At  any  rate  everything  grew  very  rosy 
which  came — I  hope — from  the  afterglow  of  the 
sunset.  The  young  couple  agreed  that  it  was  the 
best  part  of  the  day — "  everything  pink  when  you 
think  it's  all  over."  And  while  we  did  not  wish  to 
confuse  them  with  a  personal  application  of  this  ex- 
pression, W and  I  smiled  at  each  other  under- 

standingly  for  we  decrepit  ones  know  that  the  "  af- 
terglow "  is  the  best  part  of  life  as  well,  and  they 
will  have  to  wait  a  long,  long  time,  through  years 
of  doubtful  days  and  cold  grey  evenings  before 
they  find  it  out. 

There  is  a  love  of  a  toll-gate  at  the  summit,  pre- 
sided over  by  an  old  man  who  ran  to  take  down 
the  coats  hanging  on  the  long  porch  before  we  made 
a  photograph.  He  wanted  the  place  to  look  nice, 
he  said.  He  had  always  hoped  some  one  would  care 
to  take  it,  but  they  had  ever  been  in  a  hurry  to  get 
to  the  Springs.  This  story  has  a  bad  ending,  as  it 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

was  too  late  in  the  day  for  a  successful  picture,  and 
it  is  up  to  any  of  you  travelling  that  way  to  change 
the  finis  by  taking  a  snap  shot  of  the  house  and 
sending  it  to  him.  His  name  is  William  D.  Howe 
and  he  goes  down  the  steep  mountain  every  day  for 
chance  letters.  So  you  must  mail  it  to  Warm 
Springs,  Virginia.  Now  do  this  for  Mr.  Rowe  who 
may  still  be  tramping  wearily  up  and  down  for  a 
paper  view  of  the  thing  he  sees  every  day  of  his 
life. 

"  Hot,"  to  adopt  the  parlance  of  the  Southerners, 
lies  seven  miles  beyond  "  Warm,"  and  we  might 
have  spent  the  night  there,  for  the  hotel  was  very 
comfortably  nestling  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
but  it  was  not  yet  open.  So  we  went  on,  taking 
the  right  hand  of  a  choice  of  ways  at  a  fork  as  the 
mark  read  "  Both  roads  to  Hot  Springs."  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  stupid  than  this  sign,  for  the 
road  at  the  left  we  learned  afterward  is  macadam, 
and  the  one  we  had  chosen  was  of  mud  so  dire  that, 
just  within  sight  of  home,  we  were  almost  mired 
for  the  first  time.  We  could  look  down  from  a 
height  to  see  the  young  couple  screaming  along 
happily  on  the  parallel  macadam  instead  of  sign- 
posting the  only  fork  vital  to  the  motorist,  and 
though  we  afterwards  managed  to  reach  the  easy 
going,  the  wallowing  had  slapped  on  the  last  dab  of 
clay  needful  to  encake  completely  our  car.  Toby, 

-j-166-*- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

as  I  have  said,  was  already  a  clay  dog,  and 
owing  to  his  gyrations  acquired  since  he  became 
firmly  of  the  circus  I  was  wearing  a  clay  effect 
on  my  chest  like  a  misapplied  antiphlogistine 
poultice. 

In  this  manner  we  approached  the  famous  Home- 
stead Hotel,  as  wide  winged  as  an  aeroplane,  and 
so  warm  in  colour  that  one  felt  from  afar  the  wel- 
coming rays  of  an  unaffected  hospitality.  Despite 
our  dirt  we  hoped  that  we  might  yet  be  allowed  to 
rest  our  weary  heads  there.  That  we  made  our 
entry  in  the  most  indirect  fashion  was  due  to  an 
idiosyncrasy  of  the  Illustrator. 

It  has  always  been  his  idea,  an  idea  entirely  his 
own,  and  deepened  into  a  belief  without  encourage- 
ment, that  a  hotel  possesses  an  automobile  entrance. 
That  somewhere  built  into  a  modest  nook  is  a  porte 
cochere  under  which  we  roll  and  there  denude  the 
car  of  its  baggage,  avoiding  the  cold  gaze  of  clean 
guests  rocking  in  rocking  chairs.  For  years  he 
has  gone  in  circles  around  great  inns  looking  for 
this  sheltered  coach  door  of  his  dreams.  He  had 
even  wished  to  back  up  an  alley  in  Staunton  and 
take  off  our  bags  at  the  bar  of  the  hotel  which  had 
excluded  Mr.  Toby.  Therefore  it  was  not  surpris- 
ing to  find  him  motoring  past  the  impressive  front 
and  bringing  up  at  the  rear  of  the  hotel  before  a 
collection  of  doors  without  any  particular  character 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

save  that  they  were  the  kind  servants  went  in  and 
out  of. 

;<  Why  are  we  stopping  here? "  I  demanded. 

"  Because  it  is  the  automobile  entrance,"  he  an- 
swered firmly. 

"  My  dear  " — acidly — "  these  are  the  kitchens." 

"  These  are  the  automobile  entrance "  He 

was  very  tired. 

We  waited.  I  was  counting  to  control  myself 
and  he  may  have  been  doing  this  also,  for  the  silence 
was  terrific.  It  was  unfortunate  that  our  instinct 
would  lead  us  to  the  kitchen  door  instead  of  cor- 
rectly carrying  us  in  a  great  sweep  before  the  rock- 
ing chairs.  After  a  space  of  time  a  darky  came  out 
of  one  of  the  automobile  entrances  and  upheld  me 
in  my  contention.  It  was  the  chauffeur  who  had 
asked,  as  W and  I  were  engaged  with  numbers. 

"  Then,"  said  the  Illustrator  triumphantly,  as 
though  it  was  what  he  had  wanted  all  along,  "  we 
will  turn  around  and  go  there.  Though  I  can't  un- 
derstand why  they  don't  have " 

He  never  finished  the  sentence — which  was  re- 
dundant anyway.  Nor  did  we  turn  around.  The 
mud  had  done  its  work.  Whereas  Galatea  grew 
from  clay  to  flesh  we  had  turned  from  flesh  to  clay. 
It  had  entered  the  soul  of  us :  it  had  plastered  the 
steering  gear.  With  a  great  deal  of  over-humour 
considering  the  situation  our  chauffeur  rose  to 

-j-168-e- 


WE  FIGURE  LARGELY  AS  A  CIRCUS 

an  unusual  height.  "  Our  name,"  he  said,  "  is 
mud." 

It  was  Toby  and  I  who  walked  around  to  the 
front  entrance  and  tracked  over  the  pale  green  car- 
pet to  the  desk.  The  guests  were  coming  down 
to  dinner.  A  clean  and  combed  West  Highlander 
was  going  elegantly  along  on  a  leash.  The  two  dogs 
met — they  clinched.  The  din  was  fearful.  The 
erstwhile  clean  terrier  was  pulled  away.  I  pre- 
sented one  more  good  reason  for  a  refusal  to  admit 
us  as  I  turned  to  the  clerk.  "  I  am  at  the  kitchen 
door,"  I  gasped  incoherently. 

The  clerk  was  wonderfully  understanding.  "  I'll 
send  the  porters.  It's  all  right,  madam.  A  boy 
will  take  you  to  your  rooms."  „ 

I  could  have  put  my  head  down  on  his  shoulder 
and  burst  into  tears. 


169 


CHAPTER  IX 

All  About  Fashionable  Life,  with  Some  Ordinary 
Tears,  Theories,  and  a  Wreck,  if  You  Please 

BY  the  morning  of  the  second  day  in  Hot  Springs, 
so  thoroughly  was  I  relaxed,  there  was  no  use 
searching  for  the  date  of  the  month  in  the  calen- 
dar (provided  I  could  find  the  calendar)  as  I  didn't 
know  the  day  of  the  week.  I  was  as  one  who 
awakes  from  a  heavy  sleep  forgetting  his  name  or 
his  whereabouts,  and  terrified  at  the  block  of  vague 
light  which  turns  out  to  be  the  window.  It  is  as 
though  the  spirit  has  gone  wandering  and  is  late 
getting  back  into  the  suddenly  waking  body. 

The  best  I  could  do  was  to  ask  for  today's  paper, 
very  insistent  upon  its  being  "  today's,"  and,  fixing 
on  the  top  liner,  set  my  mental  watch  by  it.  We 
seemed  to  be  such  a  vast  distance  from  Washing- 
ton it  was  surprising  to  find  how  early  the  morn- 
ing papers  arrived.  I  suppose  all  of  the  guests  had 
come  to  Hot  Springs  for  complete  relaxation,  yet 
they  continued  avid  of  news.  The  long  corridors 
and  the  wide  porches  were  lined  with  men  and 
women  scanning  the  columns. 

-H170-J- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

There  is  not  so  much  quick  turning  from  the  first 
sheet  to  those  pages  in  lighter  vein  as  there  was  be- 
fore the  war.  Yet  I  wonder  if  others  reading  the 
daily  reports  of  the  carnage  do  as  I  do :  let  the  eyes 
stray  from  the  account  of  misery  for  an  instant  to 
something  alongside  of  almost  no  import;  an  item 
concerning  the  killing  of  a  mother-in-law  whom  we 
do  not  know,  or  an  advertisement  in  which  we  have 
no  interest.  I  find  that  I  must  do  this,  although  I 
return  to  the  awful  truth  after  the  momentary  re- 
lief. I  suppose  it  is  one  of  the  ways  for  us  to  keep 
our  balance. 

Try  not  to  be  bored  with  this  matter  seemingly 
extraneous  to  Hot  Springs.  It  is  a  point  in  favour 
of  just  such  great  hotels  as  those  in  the  Valley  of 
healing  waters.  The  mild  playing  here  makes  one 
gasp  when  one  reviews  the  strife  of  a  large  part  of 
the  globe  at  present.  But  it  has  its  place — it  is 
for  balance.  It  is  to  get  away  for  a  little  that  one 
can  go  back  fortified  to  endure  more  sorrow.  The 
great  hotel  is  as  the  advertisement  in  the  next 
column. 

It  is  unfair  to  rail  at  the  very  rich  who  patronise 
these  places,  for  it  is  among  the  moneyed  class  and 
among  people  of  culture  that  the  activities  toward 
the  easing  of  many  nations  have  gone  on  unceas- 
ingly. There  is  little  knitting  of  stomach  bands, 
helmets,  and  socks  in  public  any  more.  Regular 

.-*•  171  -»- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

classes  have  been  organised  for  that  now.  The 
women  meet  regularly — and  they  do  meet — to  con- 
tinue a  sober  charity  robbed  of  all  emotionalism. 

Granted  that  there  are  three  classes  in  the  United 
States,  I  should  say  that  the  very  rich  and  the  very 
poor  are  doing  their  share — and  a  little  more.  It 
is  the  comfortably  off  who,  from  my  observance,  are 
concerning  themselves  least  in  a  suffering  so  far 
removed  that  their  imaginations  do  not  stimulate 
them  to  continual  sacrifice.  The  rich  know  these 
countries  and  pay  an  unceasing  tribute  to  the 
beauty  the  Old  World  has  afforded  them.  The  poor 
know  them,  too — not  the  pleasures  but  the  miseries. 
They  come  from  them,  their  people  are  on  the  other 
side,  and  with  a  generosity  which  is  stupefying  they 
give  and  give  and  give. 

Ergo — at  Hot  Springs  I  did  not  reach  the  point 
to  which  I  generally  ascend — or  descend — at  a 
fashionable  resort.  I  did  not  wish  to  rise  in  the 
midst  of  a  plenteous  meal  and  scream  to  the  as- 
sembled multitude  what  Marie  Antoinette  cried  to 
her  tormentors:  "You  are  all  scally-wags."  No, 
"  vous-etes  tons  des  scelerats"  was  not  uttered  even 

in  our  rooms,  which  was  a  great  relief  to  W , 

who  watches  anxiously  for  this  period  of  rebellion. 

He  was  perfectly  at  home  and  happy.  His  Aunt 
Mary  Ann  and  her  family  had  always  come  from 
their  old  place  in  Norfolk  to  make  the  cure  in  other 

-i-172-i- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

days,  and  it  was  right  that  he  should  be  there,  if  not 
making  the  cure  at  least  making  pictures.  Her 
visits  were  of  the  long  ago  when  the  original  Home- 
stead was  standing,  not  this  huge  affair  of  five  hun- 
dred guest  rooms,  seven  hundred  fifty  employees, 
and  thousands  of  acres  of  cultivated  ground. 

One  is  glad  that  she  came,  and  that  the  South- 
erners still  take  the  waters.  It  may  be  their  cheery 
and  delightful  presence  which  avoids  that  mouldy 
air  of  reserve  characterising  some  of  our  Northern 
country  inns.  Drinking  the  waters  is,  I  fancy,  a 
fashion  that  went  out  with  hoop  skirts  and  has  not 
returned  with  them.  But  it  is  there  to  be  drunk,  or 
to  be  boiled  in,  or  to  have  hurled  at  you  by  enthusi- 
astic attendants  through  the  medium  of  a  hose. 
Europeans  go  to  the  cures  as  they  keep  Lent  and, 
while  they  can  never  give  up  eating,  they  abandon 
themselves  to  baths  alarming  in  their  frequency. 
Bathing  is  not  as  foreign  to  us  as  complete  rest,  so 
I  think  the  Springs  serve  as  well  on  the  golf  course 
as  in  the  thermal  establishment. 

There  is  a  fine  swimming  pool  in  this  building, 
largely  patronised  when  we  visited  it  by  darling 
little  girls  who  were  afraid  to  go  down  the  chute 
yet  wanted  to  very  much.  "Is  it  so  terrible?" 
asked  one  mite  after  her  sister  had  roaringly  de- 
scended. Still  she  was  mad  to  accomplish  the  feat 
and  finally  did — an  instinctive  adventuress.  Per- 

-i-173-f- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

haps  we  women  are  all  instinctive  adventuresses, 
and  fear,  moral  or  physical,  is  our  only  leash. 

I  am  talking  a  great  deal  about  water.  It  col- 
oured my  first  day  at  the  Homestead,  or  I  had  bet- 
ter say — and  bitterly — discoloured  it.  As  the  hours 
passed  and  I  continued  to  scrub  the  clay  off  of 
Toby,  shivering  in  a  beautiful  tub,  it  occurred  to 
me  that  we  had  better  choose  the  more  modest 
hotels  in  the  future.  Here  I  was  immuned  in  a 
bathroom,  lathering  Toby  so  that  he  could  look  as 
well  as  that  other  dog  had  looked  (before  they 
clinched)  and  by  the  time  he  was  dry  we  would 
be  moving  on.  It  was  a  very  foolish  method  of 
passing  a  most  expensive  day.  From  the  next  room 

W read  to  me  bits  of  information  concerning 

the  advantages  of  Hot  Springs.  He  thought  I 
ought  to  enjoy  some  of  them. 

"  What,  for  instance,"  I  growled,  putting  Toby 
through  the  fifth  rinsing. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  hunting  out  something  at  ran- 
dom to  quiet  the  approaching  storm,  "  there  are 
mud  baths." 

"  Oh,  goody,"  said  Toby  after  that.  "  She  ain't 
goin'  to  wash  me  no  more." 

The  Illustrator  took  up  the  work  where  I  left 
off,  going  through  a  severe  towelling  process  in 
preference  to  the  gruelling  we  read  of  in  the  courts. 
Then  we  sat  down  at  the  wide  windows  to  enjoy  the 


THE  GIANT  HOSTELRY  AT  \VH1TE  SULPHUR,  DELICATELY 
SHADED  IX  A  WOOD 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

golfers  appearing  and  disappearing  like  the  ships 
that  "go  on  to  their  haven  under  the  hill."  The 
band  just  below  us  on  the  lawn  began  its  concert, 
and  brilliant-coloured  ladies  (I  hope  the  printer 
will  put  a  hyphen  between  brilliant  and  coloured) 
sat  at  little  white  tables  placed  about  the  green. 
There  was  nothing  eaten  or  drunk  at  these  tables, 
but  the  friendly  board  has  a  mission  in  life  beyond 
the  burden  of  comestibles. 

A  circle  of  chairs  is  never  provocative  of  good 
talk  unless  there  is  a  table  in  the  middle.  In  France 
when  conversation  was  even  more  of  an  art  than  it 
is  now  they  never  rose  at  the  end  of  a  meal  fearing 
to  break  the  flow  of  thought  with  the  flow  of  bowl. 
"  Besides,"  as  a  young  man  said  to  me,  a  young 
man  singularly  devoid  of  thought,  "  it  makes  a 
place  to  hide  your  feet."  Our  table  was  on  the 
other  side  the  room  yet  we  were  feeling  unusually 
gay,  for  one  of  the  joys  of  married  life  is  the  doing 
away  of  all  necessity  to  entertain.  Then  the  band 
swung  into  something,  something  that  I  had  heard 
before,  away  back  somewhere — and  I  was  no  longer 
gay.  The  Illustrator  accused  me  of  crying  and 
Toby  moved  up  anxiously.  "  I've  kept  perfectly 
clean,  Louise." 

It  wasn't  that.  It  was  the  pain  of  old  music. 
We  cannot  analyse  it  at  first.  We  feel  the  pain 
even  before  we  hear  the  strain  aright.  Then  it 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

comes  back  to  us — the  reason  for  this  exquisite 
grief,  and  always  we  are  very  sad  because  once  we 
were  very  happy.  Why  should  not  the  recollection 
of  a  joy  be  joyous  too!  Do  we  wish  to  hold  on 
forever  to  a  condition  that  time  itself  would  render 
miserable?  It  would  be  like  the  fatigue  of  dancing 
an  endless  marathon,  though  to  the  finest  music  in 
the  world. 

W gave  up  the  question  I  propounded, 

along  with  a  lot  of  others.  It  is  Bjorkman,  is  it  not, 
who  speaks  of  "  Life's  refusal  to  explain  itself  "  ? 
Fortunately  as  new  tears  come  from  old  joys,  to 
such  of  us  as  know  this,  quick  joy  follows  the  quick 
tears.  The  nice  coloured  boy,  Hancock,  who  had 

been  assigned  to  valet  W and  give  Toby  his 

early  morning  exercise,  came  in  to  talk  of  ways  and 
means  of  inducing  the  dog  to  leave  the  room  with- 
out awaking  his  master.  Hancock  had  the  word  for 
it:  "  I'll  jes'  ease  him  out,"  he  said. 

"  That's  right,"  agreed  W ,  "  you  ease  him 

out."  And  with  some  such  method  he  eased  me  out 
to  drive  about,  forgetting  old  scores  with  new 
scenes. 

With  the  same  sort  of  contrariness  that  brought 
us  up  before  the  kitchen  door  we  drove  first  among 
the  buildings  given  over  to  the  thousand  or  so  of 
blacks  who  form  mainly  the  personnel  of  the  vari- 
ous establishments.  They  were  well  cared  for,  with 


V 

ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

stringent  rules  at  each  entrance  as  to  the  admission 
of  visitors,  and  the  whole  village  had  more  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  military  barracks  than  a  great  hotel 
scheme. 

I  should  think  they  would  need  a  little  court  and 
jury  all  to  themselves.  A  most  dignified  waiter  was 
apportioned  our  table,  who  was  as  unbending  as  an 
English  footman  in  his  attitude  toward  us,  but  who 
showed  a  human  side  upon  colliding  with  another 
servitor.  To  the  watchful  eye  of  the  captain  all 
was  serene,  but  as  the  two  circled  about  the  serving 
tray  behind  me  there  were  "  rumours  of  war  "  if 
not  actual  conflict. 

"  Lemme  get  at  yu',"  said  one  waiter,  his  face 
as  expressionless  as  a  custard  pie.  "  Lemme  get  at 

yu." 

"  Keep  youah  shirt  on,  bo,  keep  youah  shirt  on," 
rumbled  the  other  while  catering  to  an  exceedingly 
fastidious  young  man  who  wanted  the  best  and 
thought  that  he  got  it. 

From  the  abode  of  the  humble  our  motor  clung 
to  the  macadam  which  took  us — nearly — to  Warm 
Springs.  One  of  our  best  friends  who  comes  here 
often  told  us  we  must  surely  stop  at  "  Warm  "  as 
all  the  lovers  of  the  country  stayed  there  in  the 
early  Spring.  I  don't  know  where,  unless  it  was 
at  the  village  store  for  the  hotel  was  not  open  until 
the  first  of  June. 

-*-177-e- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

There  were  coloured  workmen  about,  ancient  serv- 
ants who,  my  friend  said,  were  always  delighted  to 
point  out  Hollyhock  Row,  the  little  line  of  houses, 
one  of  which  Thomas  Jefferson  had  occupied  when 
he  went  to  take  the  cure.  My  eye  was  pleased  with 
an  old  chap  wearing  a  lamb's  wool  beard  who  was 
trundling  a  wheelbarrow  aimlessly  about,  and  who 
was  as  delighted  as  she  said  he  would  be — not  to 
talk,  but  to  put  down  the  wheelbarrow.  Yet  he 
disremembered  which  was  Hollyhock  Row,  and 
when  I  pressed  him  further  for  news  items  con- 
cerning Thomas  Jefferson  he  repeated  (while  he 
should  have  scratched  but  did  not  scratch  his  head) : 
"  Mistah  Jefferson?  Mistah  Jefferson?  "  as  though 
trying  to  recall  his  lineaments. 

"  He's  dead,"  I  told  him. 

"  Daid?  "  He  started  off  with  his  wheelbarrow. 
;<  Then  he  don'  come  hyar  no  moh."  He  was  a  very 
commercial  old  darky  having  no  use  for  any  one 
who  could  no  longer  fill  the  coffers  of  "  Warm." 

I  could  have  told  him  myself  that  very  little 
money  was  ever  made  out  of  Thomas  Jefferson. 
One  will  always  notice  that  a  man  who  writes  him- 
self down  as  simple  is  shrewd  as  well.  Judging  by 
his  manner  of  travelling  to  the  Springs  he  was  more 
shrewd  than  simple.  In  the  old  Warm  Springs 
ledger  there  is  an  account  of  one's  week's  board  for 
T.  Jefferson  and  entourage  which  amounted  to 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

thirty-five  dollars.  He  disputed  this  sum  and  went 
to  law  over  a  bottle  of  wine  costing  two  shillings 
and  some  odd  pence.  All  of  this-  is  very  simple 
until  we  learn  that  the  entourage  consisted  of  a 
valet,  two  outriders,  a  coachman,  and  eight  horses — 
when  it  becomes  very  shrewd. 

I  suppose  the  impression  you  leave  behind  is  of 
more  value  to  the  world  than  your  own  perform- 
ance during  the  short  span  of  years  allotted  a  mor- 
tal. "  Jeffersonian  simplicity  "  as  we  interpret  it 
now  is  the  art  of  living  without  the  doubtful  em- 
bellishments of  ginger  bread  elegancies  in  costume, 
decoration,  manner,  and  thought.  Whatever  Jef- 
ferson was,  a  stately  edifice  of  purest  Greek  archi- 
tecture rises  before  me  when  his  time  is  brought  to 
my  mind — but  perhaps  the  reader  doesn't  think  in 
"  pictures,"  and  finds  me  unusually  crazy. 

There  is  Jeffersonian  simplicity  at  Warm 
Springs,  and  we  revelled  in  being  the  only  guests. 
The  spring  and  bath  houses  are  much  as  they  were 
in  his  day,  I  imagine,  and  the  hotel  is  kept  severe 
by  no  departure  from  its  old  form  as  the  new  wings 
have  been  added.  Lines  of  little  one-room  apart- 
ments surround  the  main  building,  one  of  them 
of  brick  with  a  few  hollyhocks  shooting  up  which 
we  took  to  be  the  famous  Row.  A  white  fence  en- 
closes the  grounds  in  which  the  grass  grew  soft  and 
rich  beside  the  little  brook,  and  blue  violets  bloomed 

-j-179-*- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

thickly.  We  occupied  any  apartment  we  wished 
and  it  cost  us  nothing  at  all,  which  would  have  de- 
lighted the  heart  of  our  third  President;  nor  were 
there  coloured  sweaters  or  gaudy  parasols  to  de- 
tract from  the  scene  of  other  days. 

We  were  forced  to  stop  again,  and  for  the  third 
time  within  twenty-four  hours,  to  pay  a  quarter  of 
a  dollar  toll  for  the  privilege  of  going  over  the 
short  strip  of  macadam  between  the  famous  water- 
ing places.  The  Hot  Springs  Company  speak 
largely  in  their  brochure  of  this  road  they  have 
given  the  guests,  but  omit  any  reference  to  the  toll- 
gate.  However,  they  permit  the  waters  to  be  drunk 
by  those  who  have  not  the  means  to  stay  at  the 
Homestead,  and  grant  the  privilege  of  the  golf 
course  to  all.  And  that  is  very  decent  of  them. 
European  cures  exact  a  tax  for  drinking  from 
the  various  sources,  except  that  one  known  as  the 
Deux  Reines  in  Aix-les-Bains,  which  is  for  the 

plain  people.  And,  as  W once  remarked,  two 

queens  isn't  much  of  a  hand  but  it  makes  a  very 
good  drink. 

The  last  of  the  riding  horses  were  being  led  away 
by  neat  little  grooms  as  we  correctly  reached  the 
front  of  the  hotel.  All  day  we  had  heard  the  pleas- 
ant clopping  of  their  feet  upon  the  asphalted  circle 
of  the  court.  The  tennis  and  golf  players  were 
swinging  in;  even  the  lovers  were  quitting  Sunset 

-J-180-J- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

Rock  for  the  privilege  of  becoming  more  enticing 
in  evening  dress.  The  hush  that  comes  with  the 
dusk  both  in  the  caravansaries  of  country  and  city 
was  over  the  house.  The  tea  things  had  gone  clat- 
tering to  rest,  the  mighty  clamour  of  dinner  had  not 
yet  begun.  The  clerks  for  the  evening  had  already 
come  down  in  their  dinner  jackets,  but  they  were  as 
the  ticket  takers  in  the  front  of  the  theatre  before 
the  doors  are  open. 

I  felt  that  I  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  stage 
manager  warning  the  actors  with  his  "  half  hour, 
half  hour,"  up  and  down  the  corridors  off  some 
great  dim  stage.  Like  the  stage  hands  the  bell 
boys  were  laughing  together.  The  whole  building 
was  getting  ready  for  the  evening's  business.  But 
it  was  not  my  business.  I  was  impatient  with  the 
idle  hours  which  lay  ahead  of  me.  Yet,  for  a  space, 
I  could  follow  out  the  custom  of  the  theatre:  I 
went  to  my  room — and  made  up. 

Diversions  went  on  at  a  great  rate  after  dinner 
in  various  parts  of  the  hotel,  with  none  of  the  con- 
fusion of  a  midway  plaisance.  Guests  sat  on  either 
side  the  long  corridor  for  the  doubtful  enjoyment 
of  looking  at  each  other.  A  cinema  was  amusing 
such  as  could  not  deviate  from  the  nightly  observ- 
ance; there  was  dancing  and  a  cabaret  perform- 
ance in  another  wing;  and  a  lecture  on  the  subject 
of  Preparedness  easily  won  the  greatest  numbers 


of  all  the  attractions.  We  thought  it  significant  of 
the  times  that  so  many  young  people  came  to  the 
lecture  as  well  as  the  governors,  generals,  and  am- 
bassadors who  lent  weight  by  their  presence.  We 
sat  with  the  lecturer  for  a  while  afterwards,  as  the 
players  sit  over  their  supper,  and  I  went  to  bed  feel- 
ing more  comfortable  than  I  had  been  at  the  dinner 
hour,  since  I  was,  at  least,  on  one  side  a  curtain. 

The  next  day  was  as  the  one  which  preceeded  it, 
which  no  doubt  sounds  eminently  satisfactory  to  a 
large  part  of  the  world.  It  was  distinguished  only 
by  an  absence  of  laundry  work  on  Toby — distin- 
guished by  that  and  a  remoulding  of  the  Illustra- 
tor's earlier  avowal  that  he  could  stay  there  for- 
ever to  an  oft-uttered  conviction  that  we  must 
either  stay  or  go  on. 

The  first  few  idle  days  anywhere  are,  to  those 
addicted  to  work,  extremely  full  of  hours.  In  a 
little  while  we  grow  accustomed  to  doing  nothing, 
barely  finding  time  to  accomplish  even  this.  It  is 
so  on  ship  board,  endless  first  days,  swiftly  moving 
last  ones  with  none  of  the  letters  written  which  we 
had  expected  to  get  off.  I  don't  suppose  that  saint 
who  spent  his  life  on  top  of  a  column  ever  wanted 
to  shin  down  and  run  about  a  little  after  a  month  of 
elegant  leisure.  As  we  had  a  circular  tour  to  make 
pro  bono  publico  we  did  not  wish  to  become  habit- 
uated to  a  column — even  to  a  colonnade — and  long 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

before  the  dancers  had  ceased  whirling  in  the  ball- 
room on  the  second  night  I  was  packing  away  my 
evening  frock,  taking  the  flowers  off  my  hat  to 
pin  them  back  on  my  dinner  gown,  and  compress- 
ing my  thin  tailor  suit  into  the  size  of  a  homeo- 
pathic pill. 

These  gowns,  with  my  travelling  costume,  and  a 
black  satin  coat  was  my  entire  outfit.  W car- 
ried a  serge  suit  besides  his  motoring  and  evening 
clothes.  We  both  had  extra  headgear  (one  h.  g. 
apiece)  and  with  this  limited  wardrobe  we  could 
have  gone  around  the  world — if  we  didn't  stay  too 
long  in  one  place.  Even  so  we  might  not  have  been 
able  to  have  left  the  following  morning  had  not 
Sir  Walter  Scott  bestirred  himself. 

Sir  Walter  was  to  me  what  Hancock  was  to  the 
Illustrator.  He  did  not  offer  to  valet  me,  but  he 
presented  himself  at  my  door  shortly  after  our 
arrival  with  a  plea  to  remove  the  antiphlogistine 
plaster  which  was  curing  my  coat  of  pneumonia, 
bring  up  the  papers,  or,  since  I  suggested  it,  write 
me  a  novel.  I  made  no  tax  upon  his  literary  prow- 
ess, but  he  did  go  staggering  off  to  "  an  obligin' 
lady "  with  the  khaki  bookcase  laundry  bag 
emptied  of  books  and  demoted  to  its  original  pur- 
pose. 

(To  my  bitter  envy  W used  this  word  de- 
mote in  his  book  about  the  war.    It  doesn't  convey 

H- 183-+- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

the  right  meaning  here  but  I  can  wait  no  longer  to 
employ  it.) 

If  I  have  any  fault  to  find  with  the  Homestead 
it  is  with  the  laundry  system.  During  Easter 
Week,  at  least,  you  cannot  send  out  a  great  mass  of 
belligerent  garments  early  in  the  morning  and  have 
them  come  back  almost  before  you've  brushed  your 
teeth,  subdued  and  orderly  in  a  paper  box.  But 
Sir  Walter  arranged  that  with  the  obliging  lady. 
And  I  must  say  they  made  a  very  good  appearance 
on  her  line,  for  we  saw  them  as  we  drove  by  on  our 
first  day  among  the  barracks. 

The  matter  of  linen  while  travelling  is  a  trouble- 
some one.  It  takes  so  long  to  get  your  effects 
washed  in  the  small  towns  of  Europe  that  we  of 
limited  kit  generally  resort  to  the  village  shops, 

W going  about  looking  very  feminine  and  I 

equally  masculine,  everything  handmade  and  hide- 
ous. It  is  too  bad  women  cannot  be  comfortable  in 
paper,  with  lace,  like  paper  doilies,  and  ribbon  like 
confetti  serpentines,  while  the  men  disport  them- 
selves in  celluloid  shirts  which  can  be  washed  off 
at  night. 

Failing  in  this  we  have  decided  that  it  is  easier 
when  motoring  in  our  own  country  to  cut  down 
our  travelling  bags  by  sending  home  the  used  linen 
and  having  fresh  relays  mailed  to  us  at  points  des- 
ignated ahead.  I  say  "  mailed  "  for  this  is  the  day 

H-  184  •*- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

of  the  parcel  post,  yet — while  I  flo  not  wish  to  bias 
you — it  would  be  better  to  express  them.  I  own 
five  shares  of  an  express  company  and  we  are  not 
doing  any  too  well. 

"  Why,"  demanded  my  exasperated  family,  "  did 
you  buy  express  stock  just  as  the  parcel  post  came 
in?  "  And,  tracing  it  back,  my  only  reason  for  this 
investment  was  overhearing  an  old  lady  say  that  her 
company  had  passed  a  dividend.  So  I  hurried  off 
with  my  money  under  the  impression  that  "  passing 
a  dividend  "  was  related  to  "  cutting  a  melon." 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Sir  Walter  Scott  returned  with 
the  laundry,  and  the  Illustrator  and  I  parted  from 
him  and  Hancock  the  next  morning  with  real  re- 
gret. They  were  such  uncommonly  nice  darkies 
down  there  that  I  am  reminded  of  the  performance 
of  The  Cavalier,  a  play  of  Julie  Marlowe's.  I  was 
within  hearing  of  Mark  Twain  at  a  performance, 
the  delightful  man  drawling  out  that  he  didn't  see 
why  Miss  Marlowe  was  taking  on  so  over  her  loss  of 
the  wicked  villain  in  the  drama  when  a  nice  old 
darky,  quite  the  finest  man  in  the  piece,  was  as 
constant  as  ever. 

Just  such  a  magnificent  character  served  our  last 
breakfast  in  our  rooms.  He  actually  brought  back 
a  five  dollar  bill  which,  with  the  negligence  of  the 
artistic,  we  had  inadvertently  put  down  on  the 
breakfast  tray,  and  refused  a  quarter  tip  which  the 

H- 185  -*~ 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

Illustrator  tendered  him  because  I  had  already 

given  him  one.  As  W said:  "  Let  us  get  away 

from  here  before  we  wake  up — or  before  they  do." 
We  did  get  away  before  all  of  the  guests  were 
awake,  although  the  horses  had  begun  clopping  up 
the  asphalt  ere  the  self-starter  had  thought  of 
starting.  They  stretched  their  necks  and  sniffed 
at  the  car  as  though  to  say:  "If  you  can  get  up 
earlier  or  go  to  bed  later  than  a  Hot  Springs  pleas- 
ure horse  you  are  some  automobile." 

I  like  to  think  they  like  it — this  ceaseless  canter- 
ing over  the  country.  An  Englishman  who  is  fond 
of  "  huntin'  "  assures  me  that  the  foxes  like  it.  Al- 
though as  one  of  our  own  wise  judges  said  recently 
as  he  fined  a  man  with  the  same  argument  for 
pulling  hair  out  of  a  horse's  tail:  "I'd  rather  hear 
from  the  horse." 

One  can  greatly  doubt  this  vicarious  enjoyment 
in  life.  My  heart  goes  out  to  the  women  wearily 
turning  the  hurdy-gurdy.  How  entirely  unselfish 
they  are!  Do  they  get  any  glow  from  the  airs 
they  give,  the  modern  dances,  the  old  songs? 
"  Don't  you  remember  we  heard  it  at  the  Knicker- 
bocker," we  say,  or  "  My  mother  used  to  sing  that," 
and  drop  in  a  penny.  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  always 
write  better  after  wrapping  up  a  cent  or  two  in  an 
envelope  to  throw  it  down  on  "  Tipperary "  or 
some  other  matutinal  offering.  And  there  is  one 

H-186H- 


THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

shrewd  old  fellow  playing  tunes  out  of  tune  who 
must  be  quite  aware  of  my  superstition,  for  he 
comes  around  regularly  at  ten  to  force  me  into  of- 
fering libations  to  this  strange  literary  god. 

And,  while  I  know  we  should  be  getting  on  to 
White  Sulphur,  I  do  throw  them  something  if  they 
play  after  dark.  It  is  because  they  haven't  had  a 
good  day  that  they  stay  out  late.  Long  after  they 
have  passed  your  window  and  you  have  finished 
your  dinner  they  are  pulling  their  musica  through 
squalid  streets  to  leave  their  earnings  with  the  Pa- 
drone before  they  can  rest.  Also  (positively  the 
last  interlude)  did  you  ever  try  to  play  a  hand  or- 
gan? A  great  actress  once — but,  no,  I  will  keep 
my  word. 

We  are  on  the  road  to  White  Sulphur  Springs ! 
It  was  so  good  to  be  going  on  again,  even  though 
we  left  our  quarter's  worth  of  macadam  very 
shortly  and  plunged  into  mud  moderated  by  the 
sun's  rays.  It  seemed  that  every  bird  in  the  valley 
had  come  out  to  greet  us,  and  they  do  have  a  won- 
derful way  of  piping  up  when  they  catch  the  hum 
of  the  engine.  It  was  as  incongruous  as  a  canary 
which  always  begins  to  sing  during  a  family  quarrel 
(one's  family  quarrel,  not  yours  or  mine) .  I  think 
it  is  very  generous  in  them  to  respond  with  their 
best  notes  to  such  unlovely  ones,  for  a  motor  while 
lovely  to  us  could  not  be  to  them,  nor,  surely,  fam- 

.-*- 187  -«- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

ily  bickering.  Possibly  birds  are  more  conventional 
than  we  think,  and  wish  to  cover  all  unpleasantness 
with  a  social  air,  like  nervous  hostesses  when  hosts 
are  grumpy. 

There  was  a  great  stir  among  little  things  along 
the  way.  Chipmunks,  rabbits,  and  weavy  lizards 
coming  out  to  tantalise  Toby,  the  mighty  hunter. 
All  of  this  not  on  account  of  our  advent,  but  super- 
induced by  the  new  green  which  was  much  further 
along  in  this  valley  of  Falling  Springs  than  that  of 
Warm  Springs.  Falling  Springs  is  the  name  of 
the  valley  through  which  we  ran  to  Covington,  al- 
though I  don't  know  how  anything  can  spring  and 
fall  at  the  same  time.  Cures  of  milder  fame  but 
quite  as  lovely  were  at  every  hand.  The  Romans 
would  have  died  happy  with  all  these  baths,  and, 
dying,  would  have  left  a  marvellous  housing  for  the 
waters  and  fine  roads  leading  to  them. 

We  descended  from  the  car  frequently,  attracted 
by  the  verdure  and  glad  to  note  by  our  boot  heels 
that  the  soilure  was  less.  ( Soilure  is  as  good  a  word 
as  demote  any  day.  It  is  employed  constantly  by 
some  of  our  newest  writers  and  I  have  managed  to 
get  it  in  before  the  Illustrator  has  even  heard  of 
it.)  We  should  not  have  done  this  as  we  wished 
to  lunch  at  White  Sulphur.  Forty  miles  is  a  mere 
nothing  to  the  hotel  clerk,  but  the  name  of  the  val- 
ley coupled  with  the  condition  of  the  roads  very 

-j-188-!- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

delicately  reminded  us  of  the  probability  of  fall- 
ing springs  if  our  pace  were  too  swift.  After  hav- 
ing made  this  good  resolution  we  immediately 
broke  it,  as  though  it  were  the  second  of  January, 
to  investigate  a  series  of  little  ponds,  like  those  in  a 
sunken  garden,  with  a  sort  of  green  fluff  over  them. 

The  chauffeur  promptly  said  the  fluff  was  water 
cress.  He  was  a  man  of  wide  knowledge.  We 
could  not  blame  him  for  lacking  any  great  familiar- 
ity with  an  automobile  as  one  cannot  know  every- 
thing. And  he  was  always  right — about  the  other 
things.  Although  disputed  by  me  it  was  water 
cress. 

This  fact  made  less  absurd  the  actions  of  a  num- 
ber of  men  who  were  wading  out  in  the  ponds  and 
slicing  off  the  fluff  with  long  knives.  It  was  the 
Falling  Springs  Cress  Company  as  a  very  agree- 
able Mr.  Reed  told  us.  The  cress  grows  the  year 
round,  for  the  spring  waters  which  feed  the  little 
lakes  are  warm,  and  thousands  of  barrels  are  sent 
away  to  the  city  markets.  I  can't  imagine  any 
pleasanter  method  of  making  a  living  than  to  go 
out  in  rubber  boots  and  slice  off  a  few  barrels 
every  morning,  cutting  your  bread  and  butter  as  it 
were. 

One  (if  I  am  the  one)  always  thinks  of  water 
cress  as  growing  in  polluted  brooks,  and  given  away 
in  a  haphazard  fashion  to  the  grocer.  It  never  oc- 

ri-  189  -J- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

curred  to  me  that  everything  which  supplies  the 
vast  markets  of  today  must  be  an  incorporated  in- 
dustry. And  despite  the  scandals  frequently  aired 
concerning  corporations,  one  finds  that  they  are 
cleanly  organisations  who  wash  their  hands  before 
going  to  work — or  wear  white  gloves  on  them 
anyway.  I  have  eaten  water  cress  ever  since  in  the 
hope  that  I  may  have  a  complexion  like  Mrs.  Reed. 
She  came  out  to  talk  to  us  also,  and  assured  me  it 
was  her  steady  diet,  never  "  smattering "  her 
wrinkles  at  all.  I  have  bought  no  shares  in  this  en- 
terprise so  it  is  nothing  to  me,  but  I  beg  that  you 
will  insist  for  the  sake  of  your  health  upon  Falling 
Springs  cress. 

Before  reaching  Covington  where  the  turn  is 
made  for  White  Sulphur,  one  sees  the  Falling 
Springs  Run,  which  sounds  like  a  new  and  wild 
dance  step  but  is  really  the  little  run  coming  from 
the  springs  and,  tripping  over  a  rock,  falls  two  hun- 
dred feet.  A  guide  book  urges  you  to  go  down 
and  look  up  at  it,  more  than  inferring  that  Thomas 
Jefferson,  when  he  became  enraged  at  Warm 
Springs  prices  and  went  on  to  "  White,"  did  this. 
But  I  don't  suppose  any  one  ever  did  "  get  down 
and  look  under  "  unless  he  fell  over. 

I  was  reading  in  Jefferson's  Notes  on  Virginia 
one  day,  reading  as  well  as  I  could  with  my  lor- 
gnon  at  home  (I  have  those  beautiful  near  sighted 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

brown  eyes  one  reads  about  in  novels)  and  he  him- 
self insinuated  that  he  had  been  down  under  the 
falls,  just  as  the  guide  book  pretends  that  it  has 
been  there  also;  just  as  I  might  say  I  had  gone  if 

I  were  not  more  honest  than  W thinks  I  am. 

How  disconcerting  it  would  be  to  those  who  have 
printed  "  There  is  a  space  between  the  falling  wa- 
ter and  the  rock  wide  enough  for  one  to  pass,"  if 
I  said  in  this  book,  "  There  is  a  pleasant  Louis 
Quinze  salon  behind  the  falls  replete  with  gold 
chairs."  Each  panicky  guide  book  which  has  been 
getting  information  from  earlier  and  yet  earlier 
guides  would  cry,  "  She  has  been  there,  she  has  been 
there!  "  and  run  down  to  the  printer's. 

We  were  quite  satisfied  with  our  view  from  a 
height.  A  river  wound  about  below  as  serpent  like 
as  a  Spanish  dancer.  It  was  a  thick  mineralish 
(made  up  word)  stream  with  poplar  trees  on  either 
side  looking  from  above  like  a  Holland  canal.  Af- 
ter we  had  successfully  encountered  and  escaped 
Covington  we  found  it  to  be  something  of  a  brawler 
at  times,  like  a  placid  woman  with  gusts  of  temper. 
It  has  not  a  lady's  name.  It  is  Jackson's  River, 
so  says  Mr.  Jefferson,  and  although  it  doesn't  know 
it  when  it  springs  and  runs  and  falls,  the  stream 
becomes  the  great  historic  James  further  on,  and, 
after  Seeing  Virginia  First,  empties  into  the  ocean 
and  goes  to  Europe. 

-+I91+- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

There  are  many  places  of  interest  on  the  twenty 
miles  between  Covington  and  White  Sulphur, 
and,  stimulated  by  the  guide  book,  I  was  going  to 
pay  close  attention  to  them,  but  we  had  not  gone 
far  before  we  overtook  a  tired  looking  pedestrian 
with  several  awkward  parcels  in  his  arms,  and  a 
checked  gingham  cap  that  had  already  burst  its 
paper  bag  and  was  literally  on  the  man's  hands  to 
his  great  discomfiture.  We  took  the  tall  moun- 
taineer on  the  running  board,  and  were  glad  that 
we  did  for  he  was  one  of  those  inept,  tragic-eyed 
creatures  who  are  put  down  by  their  neighbours  as 
"  not  worth  a  darn."  But  he  had  walked  ten  miles 
to  put  flowers  on  "  mah  little  grave,"  and  was  walk- 
ing ten  miles  back.  It  was  to  be  Children's  Day 
soon  and  all  the  "  folks  raound  aboot "  there  fixed 
up  the  little  graves  while  the  little  live  children  had 
games  and  marches  and  cakes. 

W held  the  parcels,  which  poked  him  in  the 

eye  ungratefully,  while  the  man  hung  on,  making 
an  effort  to  entertain  us  in  exchange  for  the  ride. 
There  were  trout  in  the  brooks,  yes,  ma'am,  moun- 
tain trout,  that's  the  speckled  kind  and  rainbow 
trout,  like  rainbow,  eighteen  inches  or  two  feet 
long.  He  spoke  very  often  of  the  dimensions  of 
these  trout,  never  varying  as  to  their  measurements, 
and  it  is  the  only  fish  story  I  ever  heard  that  didn't 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

grow  with  repetition.  Possibly  it  had  already 
grown  as  long  as  it  decently  could. 

His  friends  passed,  greeting  him  with  the  good- 
humoured  contempt  that  is  always  apportioned  the 
gentle  ones  in  life. 

"  See  yuh  got  a  new  machine,  Jeb." 

"What'd  yuh  trade  fob  it,  Jeb,  one  of  them 
chil'ren? " 

Jeb  only  smiled.  "  We'all  got  ten  chil'ren  and 
the  one  in  the  little  grave,"  he  explained  to  us. 
"  But  I  wouldn't  swap  nariest  one  of  'em  fob  yer 
machine — though  it's  almighty  purty,"  he  added 
hastily. 

A  large  portion  of  the  ten  children  were  waiting 
at  a  scraggly  lane  for  him,  and  he  was  so  eager  to 
show  them  what  he  had  that  there  was  no  exchange 
of  good-byes  at  all.  He  had  unwrapped  his  pur- 
chases before  a  bend  in  the  road  hid  him  from  us. 
The  uncompromising  parcel  which  had  hacked 
at  the  Illustrator's  features  resolved  itself  into 
banners  for  Children's  Day.  Flags  for  those 
so  eagerly  living — flowers  for  the  little  quiet 
one. 

There  is  a  residence  on  or  near  the  route  to 
"  White  "  which  I  had  determined  to  see.  It  was 
built  by  Lord  Milton  and  was,  very  Englishly, 
named  Oak  Hall.  '  Tommy  loves  a  lord,"  and  so 
does  every  one  else,  yet  it  was  not  the  aristocratic 

.-*- 193  -J- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

owner  that  made  the  estate  precious  to  me,  but  a 
belief  that  I  should  find  Oak  Hall  as  noble  as  El- 
sie's Roselands,  or,  at  least,  as  impressive  as  Mr. 
Travilla's  mansion. 

You  may  recall  that  Mr.  Travilla  married  Elsie 
— in  time — meaning  by  that  when  she  grew  up.  It 
was  her  father  who  was  obliged  to  venture  a  re- 
proof in  the  course  of  their  honeymoon  as  Elsie  had 
flippantly  addressed  her  husband  by  his  first  name. 
I  don't  remember  whether  or  not  she  ever  worked 
around  to  it  again  after  that  "  calling  down."  But 
he  remained  in  my  mind  from  the  instant  I  read 
of  her  breach  of  etiquette,  as  Mr.  Travilla.  I  was 
always  in  terror  of  Horace  Dinsmore  and  I  knew 
that  he  wished  the  readers  to  follow  in  Elsie's  foot- 
steps. 

I  never  got  a  sniff  at  Oak  Hall.  No  sooner  had 
we  put  down  the  mountaineer  than  we  took  on  an 
ancient  coloured  man  clad  in  a  green-black  Prince 
Albert  and  brown  derby.  I  did  not  rebel  at  this, 
although  it  passed  through  my  mind  that  a  con- 
centration on  Lord  Milton's  estate  would  have  been 
a  better  preparation  for  the  proud  and  haughty 
Greenbrier.  I  was  entirely  wrong.  The  darky  had 
come  from  one  of  the  very  best  families  in  Vir- 
ginia. "  We  wuz  own  by  one  fahm'ly,  we  wuz 
nevah  sole  away  from  'em,  and  we  hev  wukked  fo 
'em  evah  sense,"  he  said.  To  be  the  best  of  your 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

kind  is  just  about  as  fine  a  type  of  aristocrat  as 
we  have  in  America. 

He  was  in  high  feather.  On  Sundays  he  was  a 
preacher  and  he  had  recently  bought  a  church  at  a 
bargain.  He  had  demanded  of  them  the  very  low- 
est price  and  they  said  five  hundred  dollars  cash, 
and  afterward  three  hundred  dollars  cash,  then  two 
hundred  dollars.  So  the  bargain  was  concluded. 

"  And  you  paid  him  two  hundred  dollars  down?  " 
asked  W eyeing  him  respectfully. 

"  No,  suh.  Ah  done  pay  'em  twenty-five  dollars 
down,  and  hev  lef '  de  res'  to  mah  congregation  an' 
mah  Gawd." 

White  Sulphur  comes  upon  the  traveller  of  the 
road  so  suddenly  that  our  arrival  might  have  been 
as  great  a  fiasco  as  at  Hot  Springs.  One  can 
imagine  nothing  more  stimulating  to  the  guests 
than  bringing  up  before  the  very  white  structure 
of  the  Greenbrier  Hotel  with  a  very  black  man  en- 
joying the  ride  with  us.  It  was  the  old  fellow  him- 
self who  asked  to  be  put  down,  for  no  one  is  more 
observant  of  the  proprieties  than  one  who  serves, 
and,  unimpeded,  we  swung  past  the  iron  gates,  and 
drove  through  the  lovely  wood  to  the  great  circular 
steps. 

Toby  descended  with  the  bored  air  a  long  pedi- 
gree granted  him.  He  might  have  humiliated  us  in 
Staunton  but  he  knew  that  he  lent  dignity  to  his 

-t- 195  -*- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

owners  at  White  Sulphur.  We  passed  through  the 
entrance  into  the  fine  hall  of  Italian  aspect.  It 
was  like  a  Roman  palazzo  made  entirely  habitable. 
The  supreme  elegance  of  country  hotel  life  was 
ours.  As  a  woman  we  knew  had  said  of  rapidly 
climbing  friends,  "  They  have  arrived.  They  have 
gone  from  Warm  to  Hot  to  White." 

If  one  should  ask  why  we  stayed  two  nights  in 
Hot  Springs  and  only  lunched  at  White  Sulphur, 
let  me  remind  him  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  obliging 
lady  whose  spirit,  while  willing,  was  hampered  by 
flesh  too  weak  to  wash  and  iron  in  a  day.  We  re- 
gretted this  for  our  plan  was  to  give  one  night  to 
each  place,  making  a  circular  tour  of  eighteen  days, 
or  less  to  the  automobile  not  carrying  a  "  sketch  ar- 
tist." It  is  difficult  to  form  a  definite  idea  of  a  lo- 
cation unless  a  night  is  spent  there.  The  hours  of 
Eros  strangely  enough  make  the  solvent  which  ren- 
ders into  crystals  the  true  value  of  the  experiences 
of  the  day.  To  put  it  more  vulgarly  we  get  a  bead 
on  it,  which,  I  believe,  has  something  to  do  with 
beer  and  is  in  no  way  a  figurative  expression  deal- 
ing with  a  laboratory. 

Still  the  motorist  must  form  his  impression  as  he 
makes  his  flight.  Motoring  discoveries  are  not  made 
by  taking  a  house  for  the  Summer  and  getting 
acquainted  with  the  natives.  His  indignation  might 
be  allayed  if  he  knew  why  certain  towns  were 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

smoky;  his  pen  stayed  if  he  was  assured  by  the  se- 
lectmen that  the  apple  crop  had  precluded  mend- 
ing the  road  that  year;  his  heart  softened  toward 
the  urchins  who  stone  his  car  if  told  that  their 
mother  was  ill  of  a  fever.  But  in  failing  to  record 
these  incidents  of  travel  he  would  be  as  dishonest 
as  a  worm  insisting  upon  writing  up  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  the  earth.  He  must  tell  what  he  sees,  grant- 
ing that,  as  his  trip  is  a  flight,  his  impressions  are 
equally  fleeting.  While  I  do  not  wish  to  go  so  far 
as  to  suggest  that  the  automobile  has  a  place  in  the 
Bible,  it  is  well  for  those  along  a  motor  route  to 
watch  and  keep  clean  for  no  one  knows  when  we 
are  coming  along.  As  you  see :  ;<  The  devil  can 
cite  scripture  for  his  purpose." 

All  this  not  to  preface  any  attack  upon  White 
Sulphur,  for  I  am  sure  if  we  had  stayed  longer  we 
would  have  found  it  not  less  but  more  lovely.  I 
only  regret  that  I  can  but  scratch  on  the  surface 
charms  of  the  old  springs.  Since  we  admire  "  Hot  " 
we  were  relieved  that  they  were  too  dissimilar  for 
comparison  of  any  sort.  The  buildings  were  white, 
white  as  the  servants  who  waited  upon  us.  The 
enclosed  wood  as  intimate  if  not  as  beautiful  as  that 
of  Del  Monte.  It  was  a  sheltered  place,  and  there 
were  probably  many  subtle  social  bars  which  I  had 
no  opportunity  to  notice. 

There  was  one  circle,  however,  open  to  all  comers. 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

A  room  was  set  aside  for  the  making  of  band- 
ages, and  a  certain  number  of  hours  was  given  each 
day  to  such  as  have  found  ceaseless  effort  part  of 
their  lives  as  long  as  bandages  are  needed.  It  was 
closed  when  we  arrived,  and  I  had  to  concentrate 
my  effort  on  securing  rainbow  trout  "  eighteen 
inches  or  two  feet  long  "  instead  of  three  metre 
gauze  strips  with  a  little  lap-over  for  the  forceps. 
The  trout,  as  the  waiter  kindly  and  elegantly  ex- 
pressed it,  was  "  unavailable,"  but  our  luncheon 
was  at  once  excellent  and  modest  in  price. 

It  was  late  but  there  were  people  about,  and 
so  long  as  there  are  people — any  kind  of  people — 
the  interest  of  life  is  sustained.  A  newly  married 
pair  sat  next  to  us,  looking  so  alarmingly  alike  that 
they  must  have  been  the  vainest  couple  in  the  world 
to  stick  so  closely  each  to  his  own  type.  I  shudder 
to  think  of  their  Albino  progeny.  We  knew  they 
were  not  brother  and  sister  by  the  restrained  but 
amused  interest  of  the  guests  as  they  passed 
through  the  hall.  "  Here  comes  the  bride  and 
groom,"  went  the  murmur.  If  I  were  a  plain  girl 
(plainer  girl)  or  an  unattractive  man  I  would  keep 
getting  married  all  the  time,  for  a  honeymoon  is 
the  one  period  when  the  dullest  couple  never  fails 
to  attract.  I  am  sure  "  here  comes  the  bride  and 
groom  "  must  be  an  idiomatic  phrase  in  every  lan- 
guage of  the  world. 


GRANT'S  HEADQUARTERS    (PRINCE   EDWARD  HOTEL) 
FARMVILLE 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

Unless  we  are  that  wondrous  pair  we  do  not  come 
in  for  as  much  observation  as  we  think  we  do.  I 
was  a  long  time  finding  that  out,  and  I  wish  every 
self-conscious  creature  who  dreads  walking  a  long 
dining  room  would  appreciate  that  two  noses  on 
one  face,  even,  would  be  as  nothing  in  value  to  a 
mouthful  of  guinea  hen. 

We  asked  one  of  the  clerks  who  was  the  decorator 
of  the  Greenbrier  and  he  looked  at  us  rather  hazily. 
We  knew  who  had  done  the  house  so  charmingly 
but  we  were  curious  to  see  if  he  did.  There  is  no 
credit  given  the  decorator  or  the  architect  of  pub- 
lic buildings  in  the  United  States  as  a  rule.  Al- 
though there  is  no  more  rightful  tribute  than  that 
carved  in  stone  over  the  Forty-second  Street  en- 
trance to  the  Grand  Central  Station :  "  To  all  those 
who  with  head,  heart,  and  hand  toiled  in  the  con- 
struction of  this  monument  to  the  public  service, 
this  is  inscribed." 

One  can  hardly  expect  an  acknowledgment  of  a 
decorator  when  the  sculptor  leaves  no  name  upon 
his  marble.  In  all  of  the  monuments  at  Gettys- 
burg, or  throughout  our  trip,  we  could  not  learn 
of  the  men  who  had  moulded  the  wet  clay  and  put 
into  it  a  part  of  his  own  self.  A  great  many  of 
them  ought  to  be  glad  to  live  on  unrecognised  by 
their  badly  conceived  designs,  but  if  some  one 
would  let  me  know  who  did  the  darling  wolf  peep- 

-M99-?- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

ing  over  the  spring  in  Morningside  Park  I  promise 
to  send  the  sculptor  my  best  typewritten  praise. 

I  walked  about  the  grounds  as  W- sat  him- 
self down  to  sketch  unhampered  by  crowds  for 
every  one  is  too  well  bred  to  hang  about  the  artist 
in  this  pleasant  wood.  Beyond  the  Thermal  Estab- 
lishment is  the  White  Hotel.  "  White  of  White  " 
I  think  it  would  be  called,  where  the  Southerners 
go  in  Summer;  and  in  a  semi-circle  about  the 
grounds  like  little  Greek  temples  to  inconsequential 
gods  are  many  "  semi-detached  villas."  They  are 
generally  apportioned  to  unmarried  men,  I  believe ; 
at  least  they  are  known  as  Bachelors'  Row,  deli- 
cately suggesting  that  bachelors  while  detached  are 
not  entirely — or  eternally — so.  There  is  one  villa 
of  greater  antiquity — and  height — than  the  others, 
where  the  French  photographer  told  me  "  Leeve 
the  Presidonz."  No  one  could  tell  me  just  what 
Presidents  have  stayed  there,  although  a  great  deal 
of  screaming  went  on  between  his  wife  and  himself 
on  the  subject — an  altercation  which  I  ended  by 
suggesting  that  it  would  be  better  not  to  know  as  it 
might  be  some  of  them  I  didn't  like. 

"You  don'  like  the  Presidonz?"  he  asked  in 
awed  fashion.  He  was  of  a  republic,  but  he  still 
held  his  rulers  in  respect — which  is  not  to  be  a  bad 
idea  for  some  of  us. 

As  W wisely  said  when  we  got  into  the  car, 

-z-200-*- 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

"  It  was  just  this  time  yesterday,"  which  was  not  to 
be  disputed.  But  we  had  a  longer  way  to  go  on 
our  return  to  Covington  than  over  the  primrose 
path  of  macadam  from  "  Warm  "  to  "  Hot."  For 
the  third  time  that  day  I  determined  to  concen- 
trate on  points  of  interest,  but  I  find  in  my  note- 
book: "We  went  under  the  railway  a  number  of 
times,"  which  seems  to  be  as  important  as  Mark 
Twain's  "  got  up,  washed  and  went  to  bed,"  or  the 
Illustrators'  diary  when  he  was  a  little  fellow  which 
reads  mainly:  "  Am  well." 

We  were  to  spend  the  night  in  Covington,  far 
removed  from  luxury,  snatching  such  sleep  as  we 
could  in  a  hotel  along  the  railway  track.  I  had  been 
warned  that  it  would  be  fearfully  stupid,  but  any 
transition  is  agreeable — besides  we  always  man- 
aged something.  This  time  it  was  a  wreck  of 
freight  trains  directly  in  front  of  our  windows. 
Now  I  ask  you,  could  anything  more  unusual  be 
prepared  for  a  stranger  than  a  wreck  without  leav- 
ing his  room  to  enjoy  it?  We  watched  the  whole 
procedure — the  lifting  of  the  cars — the  beating 
back  of  the  curious  citizens — the  flashing  of  signals 
and  swinging  of  lanterns.  And  I  am  glad  to  say, 
I  mean  that  I  try  to  be  glad  to  say,  no  one  was 
hurt.  By  the  time  the  night  express  thundered 
through  the  track  was  cleared,  and  Covington  went 
to  bed  without  having  visited  a  single  movie.  We 


ABOUT  FASHIONABLE  LIFE 

found  ourselves  so  tremendously  tired  that  I  re- 
membered calling  in  to  W : 

"  Did  I  tuck  you  in  or  did  I  kiss  you  good 
night?" 

I  don't  know  yet  which  I  did  as  I  fell  asleep  be- 
fore he  answered. 


202 


CHAPTER  X 

And  Now  a  Picnic  in  the  Mountains,  Meeting 

Charming  Boys  and  Upsetting  Two  Ladies, 

Which  Is  Not  as  Bad  as  It  Sounds 

"AND  pepper  and  salt,  pepper  and  sa-a-a-lt!" 

It  was  W ordering  our  lunch  for  the  day 

who  awakened  me,  the  seasoning  being  an  after- 
thought and  called  through  the  open  transom  as 
the  negro  made  his  way  down  the  hall.  Possibly  it 
was  to  humiliate  me  that  the  burden  of  the  com- 
missary was  assumed  by  him.  I  must  admit  that 
he  filled  the  luncheon  basket  with  remarkable  ease. 
When  I  see  men  cooking  better  than  women,  and 
sweeping  cleaner,  and  dusting  more  thoroughly,  as 
well  as  ably  conducting  various  business  enterprises 
a  terrible  fear  comes  over  me  that  they  are  really 
more  capable  than  we  are  at  anything  they  under- 
take. Then  I  go  look  at  my  yellow  buttons  which 
have  decorated  me  as  I  have  marched  resolutely  up 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  I  say,  "  We  ought  to  have  it 
anyway,"  which  means  the  vote,  of  course,  and  I 
never  tell  the  Illustrator  what  has  been  passing 
through  my  mind. 

-J-203-J- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

For  the  last  few  years  we  have  enjoyed  the  su- 
premacy in  one  direction,  at  least.  But  with  all 
this  men's  talk  of  preparation  and  this  demonstrat- 
ing to  fife  and  drum  that  they  want  it,  even  our  bi- 
yearly  walk  up  Fifth  Avenue  may  be  minimised. 
"  Take  my  advice,"  I  said  to  W on  Prepared- 
ness Day  as  he  was  about  to  sally  forth,  "  get  near 
the  band.  You  know  I  march  oftener  than  you 
do " 

I  shouldn't  have  told  him.  He  has  been  march- 
ing steadily  ever  since  to  catch  up.  But  I  wondered 
as  we  ate  his  luncheon  at  the  summit  of  North 
Mountain  if  "  out-doing  "  is  not  among  the  attri- 
butes that  go  to  make  men  more  generally  able  than 
women.  One  fears  that  "  to  do  better  than  others  " 
is  more  of  an  incentive  to  mankind  than  "to  do 
your  best." 

This  was  to  be  another  day  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  hard  boiled  egg  industry  was  heavily 
taxed  before  we  started.  It  made  a  delay,  which 
pleased  me  greatly  as  my  three  sandwiches  had 
been  ready  far  in  advance.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  running  up  and  down  stairs  and  opening  of 
doors,  one  young  man  at  the  Hotel  Collins  gladly 
speeding  my  departure.  I  walked  into  his  room 
three  times  in  twenty  minutes,  varying  my  third 
apology  by  an  attack  upon  him  for  not  locking 
his  door.  The  absurdity  of  my  grievance  swept 

.-*-  204  -*-. 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

over  me,  and  I  made  a  faint  attempt  at  being  hu- 
morous which  was  most  ill-timed.  '  The  only  thing 
to  do  is  to  bar  me  out,"  I  said,  very  embarrassed 
but  trying  to  be  gay.  And  while  he  made  no  re- 
ply he  was  evidently  terrified  for  I  heard  him  bar- 
ricading the  entrance  with  a  table,  probably  lack- 
ing a  lock  and  a  key. 

I  was  so  afraid  of  overturning  the  table  that  I 
led  Toby  into  a  churchyard  feeling  that  I  could 
do  no  harm  there,  and  let  him  run  around  with  a 
few  religious  dogs  while  I  sat  on  the  steps  mus- 
ing on  churches  in  general.  I  had  not  ceased  to 
envy  the  old  black  man  of  the  day  before  who  had  a 
church  all  his  own,  and  could  say  anything  he 
pleased  from  the  pulpit.  It  would  be  so  agreeable 
to  buy  an  edifice  where  all  would  have  to  come  to 
hear  me  expound  or  they  wouldn't  go  to  heaven 
when  they  died.  Now,  I  cannot  make  any  one  read 
this  book — entirely  too  full  of  my  opinions  and  too 
lacking  in  the  history  of  the  Old  Dominion — and 
yet,  a  new  thought  strikes  me,  since  there  is  a  re- 
ward for  all  effort  perhaps  I  shall  be  right  in  prom- 
ising a  safe  crossing  of  the  Jordan  to  those  who 
make  a  reader's  pilgrimage  from  cover  to  cover. 

I  was  not  able  in  the  short  time  I  sat  on  the 
church  steps  to  decide  what  I  should  say  to  my 
flock.  But  I  did  make  a  mental  resolve  that  I 
would  not  take  a  mean  advantage  of  them  just 

-*-205-«- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

because  they  couldn't  get  away.  How  we  all  love 
to  talk  down!  I  have  sat  on  some  Sunday  night 
platforms  where  lecturers  were  provided  out  of 
the  generosity  of  various  philanthropists,  and  I 
never  knew  one  of  those  philanthropists  who  could 
refrain  from  getting  up  before  the  real  event  of  the 
evening,  to  make  a  speech  of  his  own.  They  didn't 
do  it  well  and  speech-making  was  not  their  busi- 
ness, but  they'd  paid  for  the  hall,  and  they  knew 
the  mean  bedrooms  of  the  young  men  and  women 
gathered  there  were  too  cold  to  go  back  to  until  it 
was  bedtime. 

W came  along  in  time  to  rescue  Toby  from 

one  of  the  religious  hounds — the  purchaser  of  the 
church  no  doubt — who,  I  regret  to  say,  vanquished 
our  blooded  canine  without  effort.  It  was  deeply 
humiliating  to  all  of  us,  Toby  repeating  as  he  went 
along:  "He  was  bigger'n  me,  Walter,"  as  indeed 
he  was.  And  neither  Toby  nor  I  agreed  with  the 
Illustrator  who  wished  that  the  hound,  if  he  had  to 
bite,  had  taken  off  three  inches  of  his  tail.  You 
may  observe  in  the  pictures  that  our  dog's  tail  is 
of  the  correct  length.  This  is  either  artistic  license 
or  the  delineator's  vanity  over  his  pet.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  the  tail  is  too  long,  and  as  one  who  can 
preach  sermons  only  out  of  a  book  I  am  obliged  to 
speak  of  it. 

(Toby  is  sitting  by  my  side  very  mortified  over 
-j-206-*- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

the  divulgence  of  the  incorrect  tail.  '  You  ain't 
goin'  to  put  that  in  the  book,  are  you?  "  he  asks.) 

Still  it  was  a  merry  morning.  We  followed  a 
stream  which  must  have  been  Jackson's  River  with 
all  its  serenity  gone  and  exercising  like  a  gymnastic 
class.  The  cedars  and  firs  were  wearing  the  new 
green  that  seems  to  catch  the  sun's  rays  of  a  day 
less  cloudy  and  were  now  generously  shedding  them 
again.  I  spoke  of  this,  which  evidently  piqued  the 
sun  for  it  said  very  brightly,  "I'll  do  my  own  shin- 
ing," and  remained  with  us  all  day.  I  sometimes 
think  if  Sun  Worshipping  had  not  been  abandoned 
we  could  make  better  terms  with  its  majesty  on  pic- 
nic and  fete  days.  Could  you  imagine  the  Sun  Wor- 
shippers' Annual  Outing  to  Coney  Island  marred 
by  a  rainstorm? 

It  was  a  floral  way.  The  fallen  leaves  of  last 
year,  having  served  their  purpose  as  Winter  "  com- 
fortables "  for  the  new  little  things,  were  now 
pushed  aside  by  the  ungrateful  blossoms  who  were 
striving  to  peep  out.  May  apples  were  sitting  se- 
renely under  their  green  umbrellas  made,  quite 
fashionably,  for  rain  or  shine ;  and  overhead  a  small 
yellow  dogwood  varied  the  colour  scheme  of  the 
pink  and  white  trees  of  the  Shenandoah. 

There  was  also  a  tree  hung  with  bleeding  hearts, 
or  what  I  called  bleeding  hearts,  although  our  ever- 
right  chauffeur  did  not  think  they  grew  that  way. 

.-«-  207  -*- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

But  I  don't  see  why  not.  One  finds  them  most  un- 
expectedly in  life,  and  as  often  in  the  country  as 
in  the  strife  of  the  city.  Besides,  why  not  bleeding 
hearts  on  trees?  A  man  who  knew  much  more  of 
nature  than  even  the  chauffeur  discovered  three 
hundred  years  ago : 

cf  — tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything" 

We  passed  through  Clifton  Forge  as  a  whistle 
warned  us  that  we  had  fooled  away  our  time  until 
it  was  high  noon.  I  don't  know  how  hastily  Clifton 
Forge  goes  to  work  but  it  stops  labouring  in  the 
most  businesslike  fashion.  Although  a  small  town 
the  streets  were  as  full  of  people  as  on  circus  day  at 
Staunton.  The  railway  tracks  were  crowded  with 
coal  cars,  an  express  train  thundered  up,  a  local 
drew  in  and  the  travellers,  each  preferring  the  other 
train,  tore  back  and  forth.  It  was  almost  impos- 
sible for  us  to  keep  from  flying  out  and  "  changing 
cars  "  with  some  one,  leaving  our  nice  new  automo- 
bile and  taking  a  small  affair  with  bent  mud 
guards. 

We  breathed  more  freely  when  we  ran  into  the 
fields  again,  the  Illustrator  promising  me  quiet, 
away  from  a  vast  city's  din,  until  we  reached  Long- 
dale  Furnace.  The  landscape  would  suggest  peace 

-+208-J- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

and  serenity.  We  were  running  along  a  mild  river 
with  wagon  wheels  branching  off  the  highway  and 
inviting  us  down  to  the  water's  edge  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  Aw  come  on  in,"  in  the  lingo  of  dear  Skinny 
on  the  funny  page.  But  we  would  not  go  in  for 
fear  we'd  get  wet — like  the  boy  who  minds  his 
mother.  The  mother  in  this  instance  was,  or  were, 
two  men  in  a  buckboard  who  said  the  fords  were 
too  deep  for  machines,  then  flipped  over  themselves 
like  fat  dragon  flies. 

There  was  a  reward  for  minding  mother:  we 
"  got  to  go  "  anyway.  At  the  next  enticing  little 
set  of  ruts  we  were  hailed  from  across  the  way  by 
an  agonised  voice  crying,  "  Stop,  Look,  Listen." 
We  could  not  believe  this  to  be  a  railroad  crossing 
come  to  life,  and  it  was  not  the  place  for  a  comic 
opera  of  some  such  modern  name.  But  we  did  all 
three  things  while  the  blond  young  man  who  had 
hailed  us  came  to  the  edge  of  the  bank  opposite. 
"  I  had  to  say  something  quick,"  he  explained. 
"  I've  tried  making  a  polite  start  and  they've  all 
gone  on." 

We  looked  interested.  "It's  just  this,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  we've  come  from  Lewisburg  and  are  go- 
ing on  to  Lexington  for  the  Washington  and  Lee 
track." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  encouraged,  feeling  that  I  had 
found  a  writer  of  travel  stories  in  this  solitude, 

H-  209  -J- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"  *  On  the  Track  of  Washington  and  Lee,'  you  call 
the  article?" 

"  Ma'am?  "  said  the  blond  young  man. 

The  Illustrator  turned  to  me  severely.  ;<  Wash- 
ington and  Lee  is  a  big  college  at  Lexington.  It's 
their  day  for  track  sports.  Hush."  Then  he 
turned  to  the  boy  deferentially.  "  Go  on.  She  un- 
derstands now." 

She!  The  "  unexpressive  she  "  of  Mr.  Shake- 
speare I  suppose. 

The  young  man  went  on  quite  as  foolish  in  his 
way  as  I  was  in  mine,  and  greatly  endearing  him- 
self to  me.  He  had  forded  his  car  across  the  stream 
and  he  had  got  stuck  for  his  carburetor  was  low,  so 
that  horses  had  to  pull  him  out.  And  now  it 
wouldn't  go.  In  the  most  charming  and  apologetic 
fashion  he  began  to  wonder — he  took  a  long  breath 
— if  he  waded  across  to  us  and  then  stood  up  along- 
side our  carburetor,  in  this  manner  measuring  the 
water's  cruel  height  on  his  trousers  with  the  height 
of  our  carburetor,  and  if  our  carburetor  was  higher 
than  the  high- water  mark  on  his  trousers  would  we 
then  ford  the  stream  so  as  to  find  out  why  his  car 
didn't  go.  "  Because,"  completed  the  delightful 
college  youth,  "  we  'all  are  perfect  greenhorns 
about  a  c'yar." 

We  took  a  chance  and  motored  over,  reaching 
the  other  side  without  horses,  though  with  a  high- 

-J-210-J- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

water  mark  of  our  own.  There  were  four  boys. 
The  intrepid  barker  was  not  the  owner  at  all,  but 
simply  a  guest  rendered  desperate  in  his  anxiety  to 
get  on  the  track  of  Washington  and  Lee.  They 
had  all  driven  cars  of  their  own,  however,  and  they 
knew  no  more  about  their  insides  than  I  do  about 
physiology — another  one  of  my  studies  in  which  I 
achieved  almost  supreme  failure  at  examinations. 

All  coats  were  off  including  a  large  part  of 
Toby's  as  I  sat  on  the  roadside  and  firmly  combed 
him.  I  suppose  I  should  have  been  "  smattering  " 
my  wrinkles.  While  the  beauty  expert  had  said  I 
would  find  plenty  of  time  on  a  motor  trip,  this  was 
the  first  moment  of  complete  idleness  that  had  been 
ticked  off  my  watch.  But  I  really  could  not  get  out 
that  baby  pancake  turner  and  begin  beating  my 
face  into  a  pulp  before  those  nice  boys.  I  was  dis- 
tressed that  I  was  too  modest  to  do  this.  Not  that 
I  mind  being  modest  but  an  anxiety  to  appear  well 
before  young  men  is  a  sign  of  increasing  years  in  a 
woman. 

Putting  the  car  through  its  simple  tests  was  a 
forlorn  hope  speedily  abandoned.  Like  the  ve- 
hicles of  the  gypsies  the  magneto  was  undoubtedly 
wet,  and  there  was  little  to  do  beyond  wheeling  the 
car  about  where  the  kindly  sun  would  dry  it  out  in 
time.  Not  in  time  for  the  meet,  I  fear,  for  we  did 
not  see  them  again.  Our  chauffeur  would  take  no 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

money  from  the  boys  so  we  all  shook  hands,  the 
barker  urging  us  to  visit  him  in  Lewisburg  where 
we  must  go  right  to  the  bank. 

It  was  the  first  time  we  had  ever  ingratiated 
ourselves  with  a  bank — at  least  to  the  extent  of 
staying  over  night — and  we  deeply  resent  each 
other's  forgetting  the  pleasant  boy's  name  and  the 
business  abode  of  his  father.  We  might  be  taken 
for  motor  bandits  if  we  suddenly  appeared  at  the 
wrong  bank  with  our  bags  in  hand  as  though  ready 
for  the  specie;  and  even  if  we  never  get  there  I 
trust  some  one  of  his  companions  will  send  me  his 
real  name  so  that  I  may  say  in  my  Johnsonian  dic- 
tionary: friendly  type  of  Americana  found  in  Ap- 
palachian Range,  frequently  at  water's  edge,  or  on 
(in — at)  the  bank. 

We  were  nerving  ourselves  up  for  the  city  tur- 
moil of  Longdale  Furnace.  If  a  mere  ford  could 
so  teem  with  activity  think  of  the  hectic  possibilities 
of  a  furnace.  The  approach  was  very  piano,  pre- 
luded by  melancholy,  and  we  entered  a  deserted  vil- 
lage which  had  cast  its  shadow  before.  There  were 
long  rows  of  workingmen's  cottages  unoccupied, 
unusually  good  houses  which  the  wives  must  have 
left  with  sorrow.  I  thought  of  the  moving  fever 
which  had  seized  me  earlier  in  the  season.  I  sup- 
pose it  would  not  be  so  attractive  if  we  moved  from 
the  necessity  of  living,  hunger,  the  wolf,  following 

.-*-  212  -*- 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  EAST  THROUGH  NOTTOWAY  COUNTY, 
VIRGINIA 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

our  footsteps  as  we  pursued  labour,  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp.  We  heard  somewhere  that  these  iron  works 
had  been  closed  down  because  the  owner  had  found 
the  country  lonely.  I  don't  believe  it,  but  if  it  is 
so  I  trust  the  ore  workers  sealed  him  up  in  one  of 
his  furnaces  before  they  left  their  homes. 

As  soon  as  we  turned  to  the  right  after  Longdale 
Furnace  we  began  the  six  mile  ascent  of  North 
Mountain.  We  approached  it  with  a  good  deal  of 
curiosity  for  we  had  been  variously  advised  as  to 
this  climb  over  the  highest  and  the  steepest  of  the 
Virginia  mountains.  In  garages,  where  talk  is  lim- 
ited to  the  feats  of  the  motor  car,  preferably  the 
car  of  the  talker,  there  was  such  diverse  informa- 
tion that  one  would  have  to  make  the  ascent  if  only 
to  find  out  for  himself.  We  were  told  that  the  road 
was  perfect — there  was  no  road — it  was  all  mud — 
no,  all  stone — a  child's  velocipede  could  do  it — no 
motor  could  make  it — ad  libitum,  ad  infinitum,  and 
all  those  other  things. 

We  found  on  this  trip  through  the  South  that 
the  most  reliable  information  came  from  the  owners 
of  automobiles  who  sent  out  parties  in  their  cars. 
They  have  no  axe  to  grind  as  you  do  not  want  to 
rent  a  car,  they  are  not  hotel  men  whose  motoring 
is  limited  to  the  desk,  and  their  automobiles,  com- 
ing and  going  constantly,  are  familiar  with  the 
general  condition  of  the  roads.  The  one  in  Hot 

H-  213  -J- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

Springs  told  us  to  go  ahead,  and  I  shouldn't  have 
missed  it  for  a  wilderness  of  springs  and  tires. 

The  valleys  in  this  part  of  the  mountains  are 
much  richer  in  growth  than  those  between  Hot 
Springs  and  Staunton,  and  at  every  twist  of  the 
steep  way  our  eyes  were  turned  from  the  poor  road 
bed  to  the  softly  breathing  country  beneath  us. 
Higher  and  higher  we  climbed,  winding  back  and 
forth  like  the  lacets  of  the  Alps,  and  more  and  more 
abundantly  the  earth  spread  itself  to  our  vision. 
No  wonder  great  men  are  benevolent  in  their  view 
toward  mankind.  From  their  height  they  see 
clearly  our  little  mental  farms,  know  the  poor 
ground  from  the  rich  soil,  recognise  those  who  toil 
unceasingly  and  the  lazy  pompous  ones  sleeping  in 
a  shade  which  lavish  nature  has  unworthily  be- 
stowed upon  them. 

We  were  nearly  to  the  timber  line  when  we 
reached  the  summit,  stopping  at  a  little  spring  on 
the  descent  to  eat  our  luncheon.  Here  we  found 
late  trailing  arbutus  which  I  had  never  seen  before 
except  in  round  hard  bunches  on  the  trays  of  the 
city  vendors,  bringing  to  us  promise  of  a  new  en- 
casing for  our  weary  spirits.  The  blossoms  were 
our  only  table  decorations  and  we  did  not  uproot 
them,  but  ate  alongside  the  floral  display  something 
after  the  fashion  of  Mahomet  going  to  the  moun- 
tain. The  bottle  of  buttermilk  was  cooled  in  the 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

spring  and  drunk  out  of  the  squashy  paper  cups 
which  preclude  any  greediness  in  drinking  by  flying 
their  contents  all  over  you.  It  was  a  very  satisfac- 
tory picnic — lacking  ants  in  the  cake.  Even  Toby 
had  a  bone  which  he  remarkably  refused  to  eat  in 
such  elevated  surroundings.  A  bone  in  a  kitchen, 
yes,  a  bone  under  the  bed  or  on  the  best  rug,  yes, 
but  not — though  the  stomach  yearns — a  bone  on 
trailing  arbutus. 

Now  and  then  he  barked  challenges  to  unseen 
foes.  The  silence  may  have  alarmed  him.  There 
is,  to  me,  more  an  element  of  remoteness  in  these 
mountains  than  in  the  greater  ones  of  the  North- 
west. It  is  hard  to  believe  that  during  the  French 
and  Indian  War  in  1755  there  was  a  continual 
marching  of  troops  over  these  paths,  that  the  coun- 
try was  settled  before  that  time  by  the  fathers  of 
men  who  grew  to  be  the  heroes  dear  to  all  boys: 
Indian  fighters.  Near  White  Sulphur  is  a  tomb- 
stone which  bears  the  date  of  1662.  The  grave  it- 
self is  no  more  mysterious  than  the  lonely  soul  who 
chiselled  the  year  upon  the  stone,  for  there  is  no 
record  of  a  white  man's  settlement  in  this  part  of 
the  country  at  so  early  a  time.  The  chauffeur  sug- 
gested that  it  was  put  up  as  a  joke,  I  don't  know 
on  whom,  but  if  any  one  makes  me  out  a  century 
older  than  I  am  I  shall  find  a  method  of  getting 
back  to  earth. 

-+-215-*- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

His  pleasantry  was  not  advanced  in  the  moun- 
tain, but  after  we  had  reached  the  plain  again  when 
one  is  relaxed  and  folly  is  normal.  I  could  never 
live  continually  on  the  heights.  It  would  be  like 
sitting  at  breakfast  opposite  some  profoundly  deep 
thinker,  or  even  some  very  brilliant  person  shooting 
off  epigrams  as  one  squirts  grape  juice.  To  sit 
opposite  any  one  at  breakfast  is  hard  enough.  My 
only  companion  is  the  canary  bird  who  thinks  cof- 
fee is  bad  for  me  and,  perching  on  the  edge  of  the 
cup,  fights  every  swallow  I  take. 

("  You  ain't  goin'  to  put  that  canary  in,  are 
you?  "  asks  a  certain  jealous  dog.) 

We  were  now  in  the  far  reaches  of  the  Shenan- 
doah  Valley  sliding  away  from  the  Appalachian 
Range  (which  my  typist  so  hates  to  spell)  and  slip- 
ping toward  the  Blue  Ridge.  Between  the  two  lies 
Lexington,  containing  not  only  the  track  but  the 
University  of  Washington  and  Lee,  or  Washington 
College  as  it  was  called  before  General  Lee  was 
made  its  president  after  the  war.  If  I  do  say  it  I 
am  something  of  a  connoisseur  on  Lexingtons.  I 
have  passed  through  (praise  be)  those  of  Missouri 
and  Nebraska.  Friends  have  shown  me  their  Min- 
ute Men  and  some  very  nice  ones  of  more  recent 
date  in  the  Lexington  of  Massachusetts,  and  I 
played  in  that  muddy,  horsy  town  of  the  same  name 
in  Kentucky  during  my  first  year  "  on  the  boards." 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

The  scene  of  the  play  was  laid  in  Kentucky,  and 
the  villain  was  patterned,  so  far  as  outward  make- 
up was  concerned,  after  a  most  exemplary  black- 
haired  citizen  who  took  an  unhappy  pride  in  the 
doubtful  compliment  of  the  playwright.  The  char- 
acter in  the  drama  was  the  meanest  villain  I  have 
ever  met  with.  I  played  adventuresses  in  my  ex- 
treme youth,  as  my  hair  was  black,  too,  so  the  bad 
man  of  the  play  was  generally  my  father  and  I  am 
in  a  position  to  know  as  much  about  villains  as  I 
do  about  Lexingtons.  Every  night  the  good  man 
of  the  horsy  town  sat  in  a  box  so  that  all  could  see 
the  resemblance  between  his  black  beard  and  the 
black  beard  of  the  bad  man  on  the  stage,  and  the 
more  the  actor  threw  bombs  and  poisoned  horses 
the  prouder  the  original  bearded  one  became.  It 
wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all  if  I  were  to  learn  that 
he  finally  went  on  the  stage  to  play  the  role  him- 
self, and  was  featured  by  the  management  as  ap- 
pearing every  night  in  real  Kentucky  whiskers. 

While  we  were  too  late  for  the  track  of  Wash- 
ington and  Lee  I  found  the  Lexington  of  Virginia 
more  to  my  taste  than  any  of  the  other  towns  (ad- 
mitting that  I  am  unfamiliar  with  Lexington  Junc- 
tion, "  Mo.").  To  be  sure  there  was  a  contest,  not 
of  the  day's  sports,  but  between  the  Illustrator  and 
myself  over  a  choice  of  composition.  He  wanted 
to  do  the  church  where  Stonewall  Jackson  taught 

.-*-  217  -t- 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

his  darky  Sunday  School  class,  and  I  wanted  the 
back  of  Doctor  White's  house.  I  thought  it  should 
go  down  to  posterity,  as  the  back  door  is  even 
lovelier  than  the  front,  like  a  fine  soul  in  an  ugly 
body. 

I  do  not  know  Doctor  White ;  all  this  was  told  me 
by  a  student,  who  also  said  that  the  nagroes  (he 
elegantly  pronounced  it  so)  were  taught  by  Gen- 
eral Jackson.  The  pronouncer  of  nagro  said  he 
lived  in  Greenwich  Village  of  New  York  City,  but 
when  I  challenged  his  accent  admitted  that  he  was 
born  in  Georgia.  He  conducted  us  on  a  little  pil- 
grimage to  the  grave  of  Robert  E.  Lee,  who  rests 
with  the  Lee  family. 

The  slight  detour  wasn't  much  of  a  compliment 
to  pay  the  great  strategist,  but  it  was  all  we  had  to 
give  except  an  increasing  heartache  for  him  and  the 
shabby  band  he  led.  The  Civil  War  was  closing  in 
on  us.  Appomattox  lay  but  a  day  ahead  where 
the  Confederate  and  the  Federal  Generals  met,  Lee 
to  offer  his  sword,  Grant  to  refuse  it.  As  we  left 
the  town  we  passed  the  cemetery  where  Jackson 
is  buried,  his  monument  rising  above  the  others. 

"  You  won't  have  to  stop,"  suggested  the  stu- 
dent. "  You  can  just  peep  in  and  say  you've  been 
there." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  be  when  you  grow  up?  " 
I  demanded  of  him. 

H-  218  -K 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

"  I  am  going  to  be  a  writer."  He  had  one  of  the 
requisites. 

We  achieved  Natural  Bridge  with  but  one  in- 
cident which  might  have  been  an  accident.  It  was 
all  owing  to  a  buggy  ahead  trying  to  make  up  its 
mind  which  side  to  give  us.  The  Illustrator  of- 
fered to  wager  a  large  sum  of  money  that  a  woman 
was  driving,  which  was  not  entirely  true  as  two 
women  were  driving,  one  rein  in  the  hands  of  each. 
They  finally  brought  up  in  a  ditch  on  the  wrong 
side.  Although  they  were  wrong  we  righted  them, 
the  chauffeur  very  honestly  restoring  a  purse  which 
they  did  not  deserve,  while  the  ladies  admitted  that 
they  just  couldn't  quite  decide.  One  meets  with 
very  little  of  this  foolish  driving  in  Virginia,  al- 
though the  further  South  we  went  the  more  fright- 
ened the  horses  became,  and  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  hopping  out  on  our  part  to  lead  the  poor  beasts 
past  our  terrifying  engine  of  war. 

There  was  no  sign  of  a  Natural  Bridge  when  we 
arrived  there,  only  an  unnatural  hotel,  charmingly 
situated,  which  didn't  take  dogs.  One  of  the  women 
guests  pleaded  that  he  be  allowed  to  remain,  and 
upon  Toby  promising  that  he  would  not  steal  the 
towels  we  were  all  accommodated. 

This  was  real  country  again,  the  doors  of  the 
rooms  opening  directly  upon  a  long  veranda  on  the 
ground  floor.  I  should  say  it  was  the  safest  hotel 

.-*-  219  -4-. 


A  PICNIC  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

in  the  world  for  a  large  sign  in  the  Illustrator's 
room  read,  "  Fire  escape  on  back  porch."  One 
hopes  no  nervous  women  like  those  of  the  buggy 
will  ever  read  this  and  be  found  clinging  to  it  when 
they  could  comfortably  walk  down  the  steps. 

"  Lilacks  am  right  nice,"  said  the  waiter  as  he 
placed  the  blossoms  on  our  supper  table,  and  it  was 
all  very  nice  indeed  until  we  thought  we  would 
take  one  look  at  the  Natural  Bridge  before  going 

to  bed.    I  bounced  in  on  W as  he  and  Toby 

were  getting  ready  to  view  the  marvel  of  nature  by 
moonlight. 

"  It  costs  a  dollar  a  head  to  see  the  bridge  be 

natural,"  I  shouted.    They  sat  down  again,  W 

to  begin  a  series  of  thinking  which  resulted  in: 

'  The  French  Government  open  to  the  public  the 
greatest  natural  bridge  in  the  world,  that  of  Con- 
stantine  in  North  Africa.  The  Spaniards  offer 
the  Alhambra  without  fees;  the  Forum  in  Rome 
is  for  the  people.  But  in  America  we  had  to  pay 
for  a  ridiculous  length  of  length  to  view  Niagara 
Falls,  and  the  enjoyment  of  an  arch  of  rock  still 
costs  us  a  dollar.  Five  francs — five  lire — five 
pesetas — four  marks  or  four  shillings.  Think  what 
we  could  get  for  the  equivalent  of  a  dollar  in 
France,  Italy,  Spain,  Germany,  or  England." 

"  Fire  escape  on  back  porch,"  I  read  aloud,  not 
that  it  was  a  very  funny  speech  but  I  didn't  want 
the  Illustrator  to  begin  and  end  this  chapter. 

-f-220-«- 


CHAPTER  XI 

Something    Better    than    My    Father's    Cousin 

Lauras  Stereopticons,  After  That  a  Bad  Road 

Sprinkled  with  Kindness — but  Read  Along 

WE  are  like  all  Americans:  we  grumble  at  im- 
positions— and  accept  them.  After  we  had  made 
ready  the  baggage  the  next  morning  we  swelled  the 
coffers  of  the  gentleman  who  farms  Natural  Bridge 
and  went  to  see  it. 

There  was  some  difficulty  in  getting  a  porter 
to  our  rooms  as  the  electric  button  couldn't  be 
found,  and  was  discovered  only  by  working  from 
the  floor  up,  and  pushing  everything  from  the  wall 
paper  design  to  early  moths  impressed  upon  the 
freshly  painted  woodwork.  It  reminded  me  of  a 
dinner  guest  of  ours  who  was  discovered  ten  min- 
utes after  he  had  taken  leave  still  waiting  for  the 
elevator  with  his  thumb  pressed  on  the  ornamental 
iron  flower,  mistaking  it  for  the  bell.  What?  No, 
he  was  a  temperate  man. 

We  paid  a  dollar  each  to  a  ticket  taker  who 
charged  nothing  for  Toby  or  for  his  own  (the  ticket 

taker's)  good  manners.  W said  green  goods 

men  were  always  polite,  yet  after  we  passed 

-e-221-J- 


through  the  glen  and  came  to  the  arch  we  decided 
that  dealers  in  green  goods  of  this  sort  were  in  a 
very  decent  business. 

I  never  saw  such  radiance  as  that  May  morning ! 
The  rock  must  have  got  wind  of  our  diatribe 
against  it,  the  Illustrator's  voice  borne  on  the  wind 
perhaps,  and  had  spent  the  night  festooning  itself 
with  pink  blossoms  and  filling  every  crevice  with 
the  newest  thing  in  green.  I  don't  know  why  wo- 
men of  advanced  age  look  so  ridiculous  in  the 
clothes  of  a  debutante  when  such  array  is  so  becom- 
ing to  an  old  rock.  I  had  a  very  definite  picture 
in  my  mind  of  Natural  Bridge,  due  to  my  father's 
Cousin  Laura's  stereopticon  views  with  which  I  was 
always  entertained  in  my  youth  when  our  family 
took  Sunday  night  tea  with  her.  These  views 
formed  my  taste  for  scenery,  setting  a  sort  of  stand- 
ard. Since  then  I  have  visited  many  of  the  mar- 
vels of  nature,  but  so  excellent  were  her  pictures  to 
my  child's  mind  that  I  have  frequently  been  obliged 
to  say  to  the  mystified  guide:  "Not  so  good  as 
my  father's  Cousin  Laura's." 

However  Natural  Bridge  with  its  glory  of  young 
colour  was  admitted  without  question  as  "  better 
than  my  father's  Cousin  Laura's,"  and  I  suppose  if 
anything  is  better  at  thirty-seven  than  it  was  at 
seven  it  is  worth  a  dollar.  (Note:  I'm  older  than 
thirty-seven  but  I  did  want  to  work  in  a  seven  for 

-*-  222  -f- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

the  value  of  the  repeated  word,  and  I  couldn't  say 
forty-seven  which  would  be  too  far  from  the  truth.) 

W made  a  sketch  while  I  stretched  my  neck 

to  the  snapping  point  to  see  who  went  over  the 
bridge  at  the  top.  There  must  be  a  road  over  it, 
but  I  could  get  no  definite  information,  probably 
for  the  reason  that  a  number  of  dollars  could  be 
saved  if  one  were  to  hang  over  and  take  a  real  bird's- 
eye  view.  Birds  never  pay  anything  for  the  finest 

scenery  in  the  world.    W said  I  was  hoping 

some  one  would  jump  over,  which  was  not  true,  al- 
though the  one  time  I  visited  Niagara  Falls  a  man 
had  attempted  to  commit  suicide  which  rendered 
the  sight-seeing  expedition  memorable. 

I  was  not  annoyed  that  no  one  jumped  over;  the 
only  thing  that  made  me  peevish  was  the  horrible 
Don'ts  defacing  the  landscape.  Don't  pick  the  wild 

flowers,   vines,    moss !     This    remote    spot   is 

hardly  the  place  for  vandalism.  Central  Park  is 
made  hideous  by  policemen's  whistles  warning  Toby 
and  me  that  whatever  we  are  doing  we  are  doing 
wrong.  I  think  we  will  have  to  move  to  Chicago 
to  secure  peace.  There  the  green  grass  is  to  be 
walked  upon.  "  It  is  for  the  people,"  as  a  city 
father  once  told  me,  "  and  when  it  wears  out  we 
put  down  more."  A  most  intelligent  city! 

I  had  hoped  to  go  over  the  bridge  as  we  left  for 
Lynchburg  but  we  never  got  a  snip  of  it,  reach- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

ing  Glasgow  only  to  get  lost  in  the  smallest  of  all 
hamlets.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  the  main  road 
over  the  last  of  our  mountains  could  run  along  a 
towpath  of  a  disused  canal.  There  were  log  cabins 
along  the  canal  with  negroes  emerging  from  the 
shacks  correctly  dressed  for  church  in  frock  coats 
and  the  admired  brown  derbies.  One  wonders 
where  the  good  clothes  could  be  kept  on  week  days 
in  these  single-roomed  domiciles  so  generously 
shared  with  the  chickens  and  pigs. 

White  folk  live  in  these  cabins,  too,  which  are 
quite  as  charming  as  the  Elsie  type  of  mansion,  but 
there  is  an  inclination  now  to  clap-board  over  them, 
keeping  out  the  beauty  with  the  cold.  Possibly 
"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  has  impressed  the  country- 
men with  the  idea  that  quality  mustn't  live  in  a 
house  of  logs,  and  there  would  be  no  use  in  telling 
them  of  the  trouble  and  expense  New  Yorkers  in- 
cur to  build  just  such  artistic  lodges  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks. 

The  main  road  to  Lynchburg  becomes  more  re- 
markable as  it  starts  over  the  mountains.  The  tow- 
path  is  abandoned  and,  entering  a  farm  yard,  the 
rocky  way  begins  directly  behind  a  pig  sty.  We 
could  not  believe  this,  and  had  no  one  to  ask  as  all 
of  the  family  had  gone  to  church  with  only  the  live 
stock  in  the  front  yard  eating  up  the  peonies.  But 
a  weary  looking  automobile  issued  from  the  pass 

-f-224-i- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

and  told  us  to  go  on  but  to  look  out.  We  did  "  look 
out,"  which  was  the  only  way  to  forget  a  narrow, 
tortuous  road  harrowed  by  gullies  that  made  Toby 

seasick.    The  view  was  so  lovely  that  W made 

a  sketch  of  the  conjunction  of  rivers  which  now 
firmly  became  the  historic  James.  The  James  is 
majestic  at  the  start,  like  a  royal  child,  and  as  I 
watched  the  picture  grow  my  thoughts  swerved 
from  the  battlefields  of  the  Civil  War,  from  fash- 
ionable cures  and  simple  mountaineers  to  the  days 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  King  James,  when  adven- 
turesome spirits  sailed  their  little  boats  up  the  wide 
mouth  of  the  river — more  like  a  greedy  maw  than 
they  did  know — "  to  seek  the  pearl  and  gold." 
Between  Tide- water  Virginia  and  our  present  lofty 
perch  lay  the  flat  lands  of  the  South,  unbeautiful, 
as  we  had  been  warned,  but  to  be  visited  as  part  of 
the  country  which  found  its  "  pearl  and  gold  " 
mainly  in  the  furrowed  field. 

Somehow  or  other  we  got  over  those  fearful 
mountains.  We  even  crossed  a  car  coming  our  way 
which  we  had  said  couldn't  be  done.  There  must 
be  a  special  providence  for  good  automobiles — one 
will  notice  that  the  dreaded  meeting  of  a  narrow 
way  is  generally  made  at  a  turn  where  the  width  is 
sufficient.  The  cars  stopped  to  exchange  sympa- 
thies, we  loaning  the  stranger  our  small  tin 
"  growler  "  which  the  chauffeur  had  wisely  stolen 

-*-  225  -*- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

from  a  garage  to  pour  cold  water  into  the 
engine. 

One  is  pleased  to  grant  him  this  forethought  but 
regrets  that  it  did  not  extend  sufficiently  forward 
to  have  filled  his  tank  that  morning.  Never,  never, 
never  leave  for  a  day's  run  without  a  full  tank.  If 
the  shops  are  closed  demand  a  key,  break  in,  or 
don't  go  on.  Unlike  a  mortal,  an  engine  runs  bet- 
ter on  a  full  stomach.  Our  car,  which  travels  on  the 
flat  nineteen  miles  to  a  gallon,  drank  up  its  canteen 
as  would  any  thirsty  soldier  on  a  forced  march. 

We  "  looked  out,"  staring  about  for  oil  wells  like 
manna  in  the  wilderness.  There  were  promises  of 
rhododendrons,  crocuses  were  as  purple  as  the  eyes 
of  heroines,  but  no  habitations  sprang  up  to  help  us 
out.  With  a  view  to  distracting,  the  chauffeur  dis- 
covered a  pink  honeysuckle  which  was  not  wel- 
comed as  it  should  have  been.  "  Look  in,  not  out," 
rumbled  the  Illustrator  as  though  he  were  a  mental 
scientist.  At  one  point  it  would  seem  that  we 
could  go  no  further  anyway  for  a  huge  pine  had 
fallen  across  the  road.  Yet  we  managed  it,  as  some 
forerunner  with  a  hatchet,  possibly  Touring  Infor- 
mation of  the  eighth  chapter,  had  hacked  off  enough 
branches  to  permit  a  car  to  go  under  the  Natural 
Bridge — without  charge.  I  suppose  it  will  stay 
there  forever  and  become  a  beauty  spot. 

In  time  we  achieved  the  clearings  where  little 


THE  EDGE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

stores  were  irregularly  placed,  although  one  can't 
imagine  who  buys  of  them.  They  were  shut  on  the 
Lord's  day,  but  at  every  back  door  the  family  were 
eating.  At  Noala  Mr.  Cheatham  asked  us  to  sit 
down  with  them  and  I  would  have  done  so  but  the 
Illustrator  felt  that  the  engine  should  be  fed  before 
us.  We  compromised  on  a  photograph  as  a  slight 
return  for  their  kindness,  which  I  must  put  into  an 
envelope  and  send  off  this  moment.  Such  pretty, 
well-dressed  girls;  such  a  good  looking  Mrs. 
Cheatham!  all  artistically  living  in  a  log  cabin  em- 
porium. These  stores  sold  everything  but  gasoline. 
If  our  car  could  drink  Lemon-nola  it  could  have 
been  nourished,  if  it  could  use  Vick's  Croup  and 
Pneumonia  Salve  we  might  have  struggled  on  to 
Lynchburg,  or  even  a  setting  of  eggs  from  "  im- 
proved hens."  It  was  a  pleasure  to  read  of  this 
kind  of  a  hen;  considering  the  service  they  render 
us  it  is  a  worthy  reform  to  be  taken  up  by  every 
social  worker,  yet  it  made  no  appeal  to  the  motor. 
We  went  on  begging  our  way  like  a  charity  ba- 
zaar until  a  kind  Mr.  Rea  at  Pedlar's  Mills  for 
whom  we  made  a  slight  detour,  accommodated  us 
from  his  own  private  stock.  Feeling  that  he  should 
be  repaid  in  some  other  way  than  money  and 
thanks  I  struck  up  a  relationship  with  him  before 

W could  get  around  to  it.    I  am  almost  related 

to  the  Reas  as  I  have  an  uncle  by  marriage  whose 

H-227-i- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

brother  is  in  a  business  firm  with  a  Mr.  Rea — and  a 
very  stingy  man  he  is  too. 

Lynchburg  lay  twenty  miles  ahead,  the  road 
finely  macadamised  and  heavily  tolled  by  armless 
men  who  said  my  branch  of  rhododendron  was  ivy. 
The  engine  was  inclined  to  whiz  but  the  chassis 
was  inclined  to  sag,  although  this  was  disputed  with 
cheery  optimism  by  our  driver.  Optimism  is  like  a 
certain  religious  belief :  it  cannot  mend  a  bone.  Nor 
can  it  mend  a  spring  whose  leaves  are  undoubtedly 
snapped.  "  Broken,  I  thought  it,"  said  the  Illus- 
trator coldly  as  we  reached  the  Carroll  Hotel  in 
Lynchburg.  It  is  curious  in  what  contempt  a  pro- 
fessional chauffeur  will  hold  an  amateur  one.  And 
for  a  man  to  make  pictures  and  make  a  car  go  too — 
oh,  not  at  all,  not  at  all ! 

I  had  the  best  of  it.  The  clerk  at  the  Carroll, 
hearing  we  would  be  delayed  until  a  spring,  found 
at  a  garage,  was  put  on,  offered  me  a  comfortable 
room  and  bath,  and  refused  compensation  beyond 
the  modest  price  of  a  Sunday  dinner.  How  warm- 
ing to  thes  heart  are  such  courtesies!  How  far 
reaching  the  results !  It  is  my  belief  that  every  gra- 
cious deed  prompts  two,  and  on  the  good  work  goes 
like  an  endless  chain,  but,  as  they  say  in  their  beg- 
ging letters,  "  do  not  break  the  link."  The  old 
waiter  at  dinner  carried  me  far  down  the  room  that 
I  might  see  the  view  from  the  window.  There  was 

-*-  228  -»- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

a  lovely  hill  to  look  at  with  an  old  white  house  high 
up  on  it,  and,  higher  still,  a  huge  painted  advertise- 
ment urging  one  to  "  Get  it  at  Almond's." 

I  don't  know  as  Lynchburg  felt  as  I  did  about 
the  disfigurement,  for  the  city  has  become,  in  pro- 
portion to  its  size,  one  of  the  richest  in  America. 
If  one  sees  a  green  hill  from  the  rear  of  the  Carroll 
House,  one  finds  at  the  front  window  a  sky  scraper 
quite  as  successfully  soaring.  The  streets  were  full 
of  well  dressed  citizens,  and  the  lobby  was  teeming 
with  young  men.  I  never  saw  so  many  fine  boys. 
It  may  have  been  my  frank  admiration  of  them  that 
occasioned  the  loan  of  a  room  and  bath. 

I  tried  to  stay  in  the  lobby  long  enough  to  buy 
some  illustrated  postal  cards  of  the  old  houses  in 
the  vicinity,  but  the  news  dealer  said  that  they  had 
no  stock  any  more  and  his  customers  of  late  had 
developed  "  just  a  natural  distaste  for  them."  Pos- 
sibly the  distaste  is  good  taste,  for  there  is  nothing 
more  crude  than  the  average  illustrated  card.  And 
some  day  when  the  Illustrator  and  I  have  time  for 
it,  we  are  going  into  the  business  ourselves  making 
beautiful  pictures  for  little  money.  It  may  be  that 
a  postal  card  even  with  an  old  church  on  it  no 
longer  placates  wives  left  at  home.  One  of  the  very 
young  men  in  the  lobby  who  I  didn't  think  could 
have  a  girl,  much  less  be  married,  went  out  with 

W to  send  a  night  letter  to  his  wife. 

H-229-?- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

W-  -  was  sending  a  night  letter  also,  not  to  his 
wife  or,  I  hope,  to  the  wife  of  any  one  else  but — 
much  more  melancholy  business — to  a  motor  agency 
for  another  spring.  The  botanical  chauffeur  had 
put  on  the  new  one  without  measuring  it,  and  since 
it  didn't  fit  the  process  of  putting  on  reverted  into 
pulling  off.  "  The  King  of  France  with  forty  thou- 
sand men  marched  up  the  hill  and  then  marched 
down  again."  The  old  spring  was  replaced  and  a 
rubber  buffer  applied  that  we  might  at  least  limp 
on  over  the  red  roads  among  the  green  pines  to 
sleep — Somewhere  in  Virginia. 

With  luck  Farmville  would  be  our  resting-place 
for  the  night.  The  chauffeur,  whose  spirits  were 
as  elastic  as  the  rubber  buffer,  felt  that  we  did  not 
even  need  luck  since  we  had  this  new  appliance. 
He  had  gone  miles — months  with  them.  ;'  Why," 
he  continued,  breezily  giving  himself  away,  "  I 
went  around  New  York  with  three  springs  broken 
on  the  last  car  I  drove,  and  nobody  found  it  out 
for  a  long  while."  Unfortunately  for  us  the  rub- 
ber effect  was  of  even  less  endurance  than  his  own 
resiliency.  Before  we  reached  Appomattox  we 
were  sagging  again,  and  as  night  was  coming  on 
Farmville  was  but  a  dream  and  any  hotel  in  any 
town  a  mere  mirage. 

While  I  did  not  tell  those  of  a  mechanical  turn 
of  mind  I  was  glad  that  we  began  sagging  before 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

Appomattox  as  I  wanted  to  spend  the  night  there. 
I  wished  to  see  the  McLean  house  where  Grant 
met  Lee.  But  the  town  itself  was  discouraging. 
The  Whites  stood  on  one  side  of  the  street  and  the 
Blacks  on  another  as  though  the  old  feud  might 
break  out  at  any  moment.  It  was  the  only  place 
in  the  South  where  I  felt,  without  any  historical 
justification  for  the  feeling,  a  resentment  of  wrongs 
not  yet  adjusted.  I  could  see  in  my  mind's  eye  the 
fathers  of  these  idle  black  men  running  through 
the  little  town  with  blazing  torches  and  the  white 
folk  hiding  in  the  cellars.  I  could  see  the  long  pale 
garments  of  the  Ku  Klux,  the  draped  horses;  and 
something  more  dreadful  in  a  mob  of  white  men 
about  a  blazing  post. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  red  sunset  tingeing  the  street 
with  a  thirsty  glow  that  occasioned  these  hallucina- 
tions, but  that  is  what  I  saw  as  we  stopped  for  a 
moment,  saw  it  that  once — and  never  again  in  the 
South.  It  was  well  that  we  stopped  to  ask  more 
definitely  of  the  McLean  house.  Since  I  had  found 
a  postal  card  of  it  at  Lynchburg  I  might  have 
written  very  touchingly  of  a  visit  to  the  old  place, 
and  of  carrying  away  some  jasmine  or  a  magnolia 
blossom.  A  very  respectable  coloured  man  told  me 
that  the  house  had  burned  down  some  time  ago  and 
there  was  very  little  to  see. 

The  negroes  of  the  present  day  are  of  two  kinds. 
-+23I-+- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

If  both  reply  in  the  affirmative  should  you  ask  a 
question,  one  says  "  yessah,"  and  the  other  "  sure." 
I  don't  know  why  a  negro  hasn't  as  much  right  as 
a  white  man  to  answer  "  sure,"  but  one  finds  that 
those  replying  "  yessah  "  are  more  useful  and  in- 
telligent citizens,  more  willing  to  work  and  more 
capable. 

Regretfully  we  left  Appomattox,  not  that  beauty 
held  us,  but  that  we  had  not  enjoyed  the  sensa- 
tion for  which  we  had  long  been  preparing.  There 
was  no  sensation  at  all  except  to  find  a  hotel  before 
the  axle  became  permanently  bent.  We  were  now 
in  a  country  without  sign-posts  and  with  more  forks 
in  the  road  than  were  ever  laid  on  a  table.  The 
moon  came  up,  a  soft  sweet  wind  blew  in  our  faces, 
and  a  bed  of  pine  needles  was  not  a  discouraging 
reflection.  Still  we  searched  for  a  town  to  find  a 
blacksmith  for  our  car.  There  might  be  bleeding 
hearts  upon  trees  but  there  are  no  smithies  in  a  pine 
cone.  In  time  we  came  to  Pamplin,  a  village  of 
two  hundred  inhabitants  possibly,  most  of  them 
coloured  people  going  to  church.  We  could  see  the 
oil  lamps  hanging  in  the  vestibules  and  the  gay 
dresses  of  the  girls  as  they  hung  about  with  the 
boys  just  as  young  people  do  of  any  race. 

A  very  promising  darky — promising  to  weigh 
about  three  hundred  when  she  was  of  age — told  us 
the  hotel  was  the  "  grea'  big  house  on  yondah," 

-e-232-*- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

which  was  so  encouraging  that  the  throttle  was 
opened  with  an  idea  of  sweeping  up  very  stylishly 
to  the  automobile  entrance.  In  two  minutes  we 
were  firmly  in  the  open  country  again,  all  three  of 
us  with  our  hearts  cleansed  of  broken  springs  and 
full  of  the  humour  of  the  situation.  A  perfectly 
strange  gentleman  then  appeared  from  nowhere, 
and  stepping  on  the  running  board  offered  to  take 
us  back  to  the  grea'  big  house  which  we  had  missed. 
He  said  he  would  do  his  best  to  see  that  we  were  ac- 
commodated for  he  owned  the  place  and  the  one 
next  to  it  and  the  one  next  to  that.  But  if  ever 
three  travellers,  to  say  nothing  of  the  dog,  had  ar- 
rived importunely  we  were  that  party. 

The  furnishings  of  the  hotel  had  been  auctioned 
off  on  Saturday  and  the  trophies  carried  away.  The 
new  proprietor  had  taken  possession  fifteen  min- 
utes before  our  arrival,  and  our  appearance  had 
unfortunately  been  made  a  day  before  that  of  the 
new  proprietor's  furniture.  I  shudder  to  think 
what  would  have  happened  to  us  in  a  Northern 
town  under  such  circumstances.  But  the  lady  who 
was  going  out  and  the  lady  who  was  going  in  put 
their  heads  together  and  the  result  was  two  beds  in 
an  empty  room  with  staring  unshaded  windows  for 

W and  me,  and  half  a  bed  for  the  chauffeur  in 

Mr.  Fells's  room.  That  is  all  I  can  tell  you  of  Mr. 
Fells.  We  never  had  a  chance  to  thank  him,  for 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

he  came  home  from  church  late  and  went  to  work 
early,  and  we  never  saw  again  the  mysterious  gen- 
tleman who  owned  the  town.  So  a  little  bunch  of 
appreciation  is  waiting  to  be  sent  him  post  prepaid 
when  I  can  secure  his  name. 

We  sat  on  the  long  dark  porch  watching  the 
white  blotch  of  Toby  gambolling  about  the  yard, 
while  the  old  chatelaine  and  her  daughter  went  rus- 
tling off  to  service  and  the  new  lady  of  the  house, 
still  wearing  her  hat,  prepared  supper.  They  had 
brought  something  from  the  farm  with  them  when 
they  came  in  on  the  "  eight  o'clock."  There  was  a 
delay  in  both  instances  as  the  beau  of  the  young 
lady  was  late  in  calling  to  take  them  to  church  and 
was  greeted  as  "  slow  poke."  But  we  were  too 
grateful  to  address  any  one  as  "  slow  poke  "  who 
was  getting  our  supper.  In  time  we  all  drew 
around  the  board,  father,  mother,  and  daughter  of 
the  new  regime,  drinking  bowls  of  black  coffee  with 
enthusiasm. 

Since  the  most  important  event  in  the  world  to 
them  was  the  running  of  their  first  hotel  we  talked 
of  nothing  else.  The  host  had  but  one  regret:  he 
had  installed  an  acetylene  plant  on  his  farm  and 
he  must  leave  it.  "  You  just  turn  on  the  gas  and 
there  you  are,"  he  told  us  softly  and  often.  "  I 
shall  certainly  miss  my  acetylene."  While  we 
didn't  say  so,  we  wondered  how  this  moving  into  a 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

town  of  such  minute  proportions  could  be  a  gain  in 
any  way,  and  we  fear  there  is  a  tragedy  behind  the 
abandoning  of  the  farm  with  the  gas.  But  as  there 
was  only  a  gentle  complacency  in  the  eyes  of  the 
man  so  there  was  only  resolution  in  those  of  his 
pretty  wife,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  daughter  a  lively 
interest  in  whatever  lay  before  her.  How  wonder- 
ful to  be  seventeen  with  all  life  bottled  up  and  wait- 
ing for  us  on  a  far  high  shelf!  How  terrible  if  we 
knew  at  seventeen  the  contents  of  the  bottle! 

Having  purloined  two  chairs  from  the  dining 
room,  made  a  carpet  of  the  Lynchburg  newspaper, 
and  a  short  window  curtain  of  maps  we  retired  by 
the  light  of  our  electric  lantern  and  stayed  awake 
from  the  light  of  the  moon.  I  never  thought  be- 
fore that  one  could  get  too  much  moon,  and  I  be- 
lieve if  boys  and  girls  who  walk  out  in  it  and  stay 
too  long  were  obliged  to  stay  out  in  it  some  time 
longer  they  might  develop  "  just  a  natural  dis- 
taste "  for  it.  The  French  call  a  sleepless  night 
une  nuit  blanche,  meaning  that  they  must  turn  on 
the  light,  but  this  white  night  transcended  even  the 
glow  of  our  host's  farm.  It  enraged  me  that  I 
could  lend  myself  so  poorly  to  the  discomforts  of 
life,  and  I  think  every  one  of  us  should  go  into  camp 
each  year  from  a  reason  no  more  patriotic  than  a 
gratitude  for  whatever  home  is  ours  when  the  camp 
is  broken. 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

I  thought  I  didn't  sleep  at  all  but  I  must  have 

for  I  was  awakened  by  W asking  if  it  was  the 

sun  or  the  moon  shining  in  on  us.  "It  is  the  lark 
and  not  the  nightingale,"  I  made  answer,  and  as 
he  knew  his  birds  and  poets  he  set  out  shortly  for 
the  blacksmith.  But  the  man  who  was  proficient 
in  springs  was  recovering  from  pneumonia,  crawl- 
ing over  to  the  hotel  to  show  us  all  how  pale  he 
was,  and  advising  Farmville  where  there  was  an 
obliging  smith  who  would  do  anything  to  keep 
travellers  from  delaying  in  the  town,  a  more  kindly 
intention  than  the  phrasing  would  suggest. 

We  ate  at  the  second  breakfast,  after  the  day 
boarders  from  the  railway  had  gone.  There  was 
cold  pork,  fried  eggs,  hot  biscuit,  jam  and  conver- 
sation at  the  next  table.  The  daughters  of  the  past 
and  present  menage  were  comparing  notes  on  life. 
They  were  crisply  dressed  girls  with  no  country  airs 
about  them  but  almost  pathetically  naive. 

In  confiding  their  ambitions  to  each  other,  the  de- 
parting one  admitted  that  hers  was  to  play  golf. 
She  didn't  know  why,  as  she  had  never  seen  a  golf 
game  or  a  golf  ball.  :<  Though  of  course  I  would 
know  a  golfer  by  his  golf  bag."  It  was  a  poor  way 
of  recognising  a  golf  player,  but  this  thought  only 
dipped  into  my  mind.  Occupying  all  my  cerebral 
faculties  was  the  deep  admiration  for  this  girl  bred 
so  far  from  the  dalliance  of  life  that  she  has  never 

-J-236-*- 


heard  the  click  nor  whirr  of  the  soaring  ball,  yet  her 
manner  possessed  the  unostentatious  assurance  of 
an  old  civilisation. 

The  other  girl's  ambition  was  to  keep  on  as  well 
as  they  had  begun  with  the  hotel,  which  was  so  un- 
selfish of  her  that  I  did  not  regret  my  moonlit 
couch  since  it  was  plain  that  we  were  the  beginning. 
The  soft-voiced  landlord  walked  down  to  the  gate 
with  us  as  we  made  our  way  to  the  car,  looking  back 
continually  at  the  shabby  old  house.  "  But  it  will 
be  right  nice  some  day.  I'll  put  in  acetylene — just 
turn  it  on  and  there  you  are."  I  wondered  what 
superhuman  power  had  assisted  him  in  establish- 
ing the  innovation  on  the  farm. 

We  lost  ourselves  going  among  the  pines  to 
Farmville.  The  only  landmarks  given  us  were 
churches,  and  as  there  were  more  of  these  than 
Brooklyn  ever  could  hope  for,  we  found  them  as 
confusing  as  the  forks  on  the  road.  It  was  not  dif- 
ficult to  recognise  the  coloured  churches  for  they 
were  as  gaily  decorated  as  coloured  churches  should 
be,  the  little  steeples  resembling  the  flags  of  all  na- 
tions. It  was  hard  to  be  concerned  over  the  leaves 
in  a  spring  when  they  were  only  steel  strips  under 
an  automobile  and  not  pleasant  new  ones  making  a 
much  needed  shade  for  this  warm  day. 

If  we  had  not  lost  ourselves  we  would  never  have 
found  Hampden- Sidney.  It  is  a  college  of  unusual 

+-2S7+- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

colonial  beauty  with  an  old  church  across  the  way 
proud  of  its  hundred  and  twenty-five  years  of  pil- 
lared strength.  Boys  in  white  flannels  were  go- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  building  just  as  boys  do  in  the 
larger  universities,  whistling,  singing,  and  watching 
us  out  of  the  tails  of  their  eyes.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  is  the  white  flannelling  or  youth  that 
makes  boys  so  much  alike.  There  was  youth  in  the 
woods  too,  avenues  of  brilliant  white  dogwood 
among  the  old  pines,  shedding  an  unconscious 
beauty.  And  this  to  me  is  the  charm  of  the  young — 
not  that  inexperience  is  lovely,  but  we  older  ones 
know  that  with  experience  this  iridescence  must 
fade  and  no  powder  or  patches  can  take  its  place. 

I  don't  know  whether  the  warm  friend  I  made 
at  Farmville  was  a  chauffeur  or  the  rich  young  man 
of  the  town.  It  is  hard  to  tell  in  the  South  where 
they  are  all  so  well  mannered.  Besides  it  is  almost 
as  fashionable  for  a  Southern  gentleman  to  work  at 
a  trade  in  these  days  as  it  is  in  England.  This  one 
went  with  me  up  the  street  after  we  had  left  the  car 
with  the  accommodating  smithy  to  see  if  a  certain 
kind  of  a  map  could  be  found.  The  Virginian 
speaks  entirely  of  localities  by  counties,  yet  no  road 
maps  designate  county  lines. 

We  went  into  a  clothing  store  to  get  the  map  and 
the  proprietor  said  he  would  run  home  and  bring 
his  for  me  to  look  at,  but  he  doubted  if  I  could  buy 

-i-238-i- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

one  this  side  of  Richmond.  As  I  didn't  wish  to  see 
a  Southern  gentleman  run  but  liked  very  much  to 
hear  him  talk,  I  persuaded  him  to  remain  by  the 
ribbon  counter.  Here,  of  all  places  in  the  world  I 
learned  that  Farmville  was  as  historic,  Civilly  War 
speaking,  as  any  place  we  would  visit,  and  that 
right  over  the  present  show  window  was  still  the 
small  cannon  ball  which  had  been  fired  at  General 
Grant. 

General  Grant  had  not  been  in  buying  ribbon 
but  was  next  door  at  the  Hotel  Prince  Edward 
(named  after  the  county)  viewing  through  his 
glasses  the  remnant  of  Lee's  scarred  troops  en- 
camped outside  the  city.  Though  they  were  starv- 
ing they  had  a  cannon  ball  left,  and  Grant  missed 
it  by  ten  feet. 

This  hurried  me  into  the  hotel  to  be  introduced 
by  my  strange  new  friend  to  the  proprietor,  Mr. 
Chick.  And  in  that  way  I  found  myself  soon  after- 
wards in  a  large  upper  room  writing  at  a  table 
where  Grant  had  written,  where  he  planned  his  last 
strategical  move  before  he  rode  on  to  face  Lee  at 
Appomattox.  So,  after  all,  the  sensation  was  mine 
of  which  I  had  been  robbed  by  the  burning  of  the 
McLean  house.  Both  armies  were  making  for 
Lynchburg,  but  the  Union  men  were  encircling  the 
enfeebled  Southern  troops  and  at  Appomattox 
they  could  go  no  further. 

-e-  239  -*- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

Mr.  Chick  was  sorry  that  he  wasn't  older,  which 
was  most  gallant  even  for  a  Virginian,  but  he  did 
not  remember  Grant  at  all,  although  his  old  clerk 
who  came  on  at  night  could  tell  the  whole  story.  I 
moved  to  the  window  restlessly.  The  Illustrator 
was  obligingly  drawing  this  side  of  the  fine  old  inn 
that  he  might  include  the  four  windows  of  Grant's 
room  which  ran  along  the  second  story  of  the  main 
building.  There  was  no  use  importuning  him  to 
stay  if  his  sketch  was  finished,  but  if  the  sun  would 
go  under  a  cloud — he  was  a  stubborn  man  and 
would  wait  all  day  for  shadows.  The  sun  blazed 
on  and  I  returned  to  the  depths  of  the  quiet  room. 

'  Yes,  ma'am,  just  as  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Chick, 
"  except,  of  course,  the  bathtub." 

;'  What  did  Grant  do  when  the  cannon  shot  was 
fired  at  him? " 

"  He  went  downstairs  most  as  quick  as  the  shot 
and  smoked  his  cigar  on  the  lower  porch.  He  knew 
it  was  the  end,  though,  for  them — not  for  him.  He 
reflected  an  almighty  lot,  my  old  clerk  says,  and 
was  right  sad." 

The  old  waiter  at  dinner  could  have  told  us  more 
I  am  sure  but  he  was  so  deaf  that  I  feared  to  rouse 
the  peaceable  citizens  at  the  little  tables  by  stirring 
up  old  wounds.  I  did  ask  once  if  he  remembered 
Grant,  but  he  replied  that  it  was  hard  to  get  the 
chicken  livers  as  they  were  used  for  the  gravy,  and 

.-*-  240  -*- 


SEA  RAIDERS  INTERNED— THE  "PRINZ  EITEL  FRIEDRICH" 
AND  "KRONPRINZ  WILHELM"  AT  PORTSMOUTH 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

as  some  of  the  citizens  snickered  I  wasn't  going  to 
gather  any  more  data  if  nobody  buys  the  book. 

We  had  corn  pone  for  dinner,  a  fearfully  heavy 
bread  of  curious  shape.  I  received  a  religious  pic- 
ture once — for  knowing  my  Bible  verses — which 
consisted  of  a  grove  of  trees  with  manna  hanging 
on  them.  I  thought  they  were  sheep's  tails  then, 
but  I  know  now  they  were  corn  pone,  possibly  two 
of  the  original  ones  being  apportioned  to  us  at  the 
Prince  Edward.  The  dinner  was  of  the  best,  how- 
ever, chicken  in  large  quantities  appearing  for  the 
first  time.  We  had  not  met  with  it  before  except 
under  the  motor's  wheels,  and  we  wonder  if  all  the 
genuine  old-fashioned  fried  chicken  cooks  are  in  the 
taverns  along  the  New  England  roads;  also — why 
is  Northern  cooking  never  advertised  in  the  South? 
Mr.  Chick  accompanied  me  to  the  automobile  and 
we  both  looked  up  at  the  shot  meant  for  Grant. 
'  Yes,  ma'am.  Then  they  went  on  to  Appomattox, 
but  a  lot  of  the  boys  had  dropped  off  already,  go- 
ing to  their  homes,  too  heartsick  to  see  the  end,  I 
reckon.  General  Lee  had  on  a  fine  uniform  they 
said,  but  Grant  wore  an  old  business  suit  with  epau- 
lets sewed  on  it.  Nobody  knows  just  what  passed 
between  them — so  many  stories  have  been  told.  But 
the  Southern  boys  were  fed  right  off,  and  Grant 
made  a  great  hit  with  us  all  when  he  told  the  officers 
to  keep  their  side  arms  and  horses.  Then  Lee  hesi- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

tated,  for  he  was  proud  and  didn't  want  to  ask  too 
much,  or  to  give  away  their  extremity  but  at  length 
he  up  and  said  a  lot  of  the  privates  had  brought 
their  own  horses  to  use  for  the  cavalry  and  artillery. 
And  Grant  answered  direct  and  abrupt  as  he  al- 
ways did :  '  Let  the  boys  keep  'em  for  the  Spring 
ploughing.'  Then  they  went  home — to  begin  all 
over  again." 

Farmville  was  quite  a  blur  until  we  had  entirely 
left  it.  Then  I  was  jolted  into  conscious  resent- 
ment, for  nothing  dries  up  the  eyes  like  indignation. 
I  sat  tight  or  as  tight  as  I  could  and  looked  about 
me.  We  were  now  firmly  among  the  Southern 
farms  and  I  could  not  write  my  mother  encourag- 
ingly of  the  crops.  Wheat  was  once  a  great  prod- 
uct of  Virginia  but  the  vast  agricultural  companies 
of  the  West  have  robbed  that  of  lucrativeness ;  to- 
bacco they  have  decided  grows  best  on  the  lee  side 
of  the  hills  in  the  Northern  part:  it  is  not  the  cli- 
mate for  cotton,  and  I  didn't  know  where  the  mys- 
terious plants  covered  with  white  sheets  were  do- 
ing well  or  not. 

Those  white  sheets  bade  fair  to  tease  me  as  much 
as  the  two  doors  of  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch.  When 
there  were  sheets  about  there  was  no  one  to  ask  of 
them,  and  when  people  were  about  there  were  no 
sheets,  those  interrogated  replying  that  it  was  wash 
day.  The  lovely  woods  also  drove  me  frantic,  for 

-j-242-e- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

they  now  carried  a  sign  of  "  Posted  "  on  the  trees  as 
though  the  forest  were  a  bad  club  member,  its  re- 
missness  exposed  to  the  world. 

We  finally  asked  "  Henry  Hobson "  about 
Posted.  He  was  a  very  old  darky  driving  an  ox  to 

a  cart,  and  as  W wished  to  sketch  him  I  was 

so  hurried  into  asking  him  a  question  that  I  could 
plunge  upon  nothing  but  "  Posted,"  although  he 
would  have  been  the  very  man  for  "  Sheets  "  of 
which  I  did  not  think.  But  Henry  Hobson  pos- 
sessed a  fund  of  general  information  telling  us  that 
the  sign  meant  "  cain't  do  no  huntin'."  His  real 
lack  in  knowledge  was  his  home  address.  He  didn't 
know  where  he  lived,  at  least  he  couldn't  decide 
when  we  asked  for  his  post  office  address  that  we 
might  send  him  what  he  admitted  to  be  his  first 
picture. 

He  finally  hit  upon  some  place  where  a  letter 
would  be  likely  to  reach  him,  but  for  once  the  dia- 
lect baffled  us.  We  had  to  call  upon  a  white  woman 
who  knew  immediately  that  Henry  was  saying 
Jenning's  Ordinary.  This  remote  spot  is  going  to 
cost  us  a  great  deal  of  money  as  we  shall  now  have 
to  buy  a  county  map  so  much  needed  in  Virginia 
and  of  so  little  use  in  New  York  City,  to  find  out 
where  Jenning's  Ordinary  is.  It  had  never  oc- 
curred to  me  before  that  darky  dialect  was  difficult 
to  understand.  I  remember  in  London  looking  at 

-*•  243  -«- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

an  Englishwoman  with  veiled  contempt  who  re- 
marked after  hearing  a  young  American  girl  in 
plantation  songs :  "  I  don't  get  a  word  she  says  and 
I  presume  she  is  singing  in  the  negro  language." 
And  now  I  am  as  a  Briton! 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  we  came  to  Peters- 
burg. Petersburg  that  Grant  failed  to  surprise. 
Petersburg  of  the  bloody  Crater,  where  action  fol- 
lowed by  inaction  occasioned  the  useless  sacri- 
fice of  thousands  of  lives.  Inversely  it  surprised  us. 
We  had  but  a  few  moments  ago  left  the  ox  carts 
of  the  road,  the  strings  of  mules  and  the  horses 
three  abreast  to  a  cart  guided  by  a  postilion.  We 
came  to  a  town  of  paved  streets  with  a  something 
at  the  crossings  under  a  canopy  of  khaki,  a  some- 
thing in  a  uniform  on  a  little  throne,  like  a  king  on  a 
dais,  who  turned  a  lever  and  behold  the  traffic 
was  told  to  "  Go!  Go! "  while  those  at  right  angles 
were  urged  to  "  Stop !  Stop !  "  It  was  a  Southern 
traffic  cop  secure  from  sunstroke,  controlling  the 
little  army  of  North  and  South  as  opposed  to  those 
of  East  and  West. 

We  went  the  length  of  the  town,  for  the  hotels 
cluster  lovingly  about  the  Union  Railway  Station. 
It  afforded  us  the  chance  to  look  up  cool  sprinkled 
streets,  the  residents  of  which  were  already  seating 
themselves  on  the  stoops  of  the  fine  old  houses,  full 
of  exclamations  over  the  heat  of  the  day.  But 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

there  was  still  a  little  country  for  us  in  the  trees 
of  the  hotel  backyard,  the  green  branches  more  wel- 
come than  the  odours  of  the  kitchen  which  came  to 
greet  us  also.  Why  are  several  cooked  dishes  nau- 
seating when  the  smell  of  one  is  tickling  to  the  nos- 
trils ?  There  might  be  an  awful  warning  in  this  too- 
much-of-a-good-thing  idea  if  I  had  time  to  clothe  it 
in  figurative  dress. 

I  had  barely  time  to  dress  myself  after  so  much 
splashing  in  the  two  bath  rooms  allotted  us  that  the 
chambermaid  was  declaring  to  goodness  that  the 
tank  am  ran  over.  She  was  a  knowing  one  in  other 
directions.  When  I  asked  for  some  plain  white 
soap,  ostensibly  waving  a  soiled  chiffon  scarf,  she 
was  not  at  all  deceived,  but  returned  with  a  lump 
of  indigo,  as  well,  which  she  said  was  mighty  good 
for  bluing  them  wite  dawgs.  We  left  Toby  all 
but  starched  and  stiff  to  go  to  the  grill  below. 

A  grill  has  a  gay  sound.  This  was  evidently 
the  gathering  place  of  the  gilded  youth,  one  being 
gathered  up  and  put  out  of  the  establishment  as 
we  were  entering.  I  did  my  best  to  add  to  the 
spirit  of  the  scene,  ordering  a  Tango  salad  and 
while  I  am  no  rounder,  I  think  I  was  better  than  a 
phonograph  which  stood  in  a  balcony  all  by  itself 
crying  to  go  back  to  Tennessee.  I  kept  looking  up 
at  it  all  through  dinner,  until  the  creature,  full  of 
so  many  voices,  became  an  animate  thing  in  a  little 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

golden-oak  jail,  and  I  wondered  where  all  those 
voices  would  fly  to  if  they  were  let  out. 

How  those  who  sing  into  these  machines  would 
hate  the  surroundings  where  they  send  their  lovely 
notes!  It  must  be  that  they  think  first  (first  after 
the  money)  of  the  happiness  their  music  has 
brought  to  the  shut-ins  and  to  the  far  waste  spaces. 
And  one  is  told  that  a  taste  has  been  cultivated  for 
the  best  by  this  opportunity  of  listening  to  a  class  of 
music  which  would  have  been  denied  them  two  dec- 
ades ago.  So  much  for  the  phonograph,  but  what 
has  become  of  the  girls  who  used  to  play  the  piano 
for  dancing  class  before  the  phonograph  came  in? 
I  asked  W that,  wishing  to  arouse  his  sym- 
pathies. It  didn't.  He  said  they  were  doing  one  of 
two  things:  either  accompanying  those  who  were 
singing  in  the  phonographs,  or  playing  for  the 
movies  with  a  chance  to  look  at  the  pictures  for 
nothing. 

We  went  out  with  our  blue  dog  to  wire  my  maid 
for  more  shirts.  The  maid  was  from  Virginia  and 
I  didn't  want  to  tell  her  we  had  broken  a  spring  on 
account  of  the  uneven  disposition  of  her  roads,  yet 
it  was  a  night  letter  and  I  had  ten  words  unused 
even  with  "  Love  from  Toby."  The  Illustrator  had 
sent  a  second  pleading  telegram  to  have  his  spring 
waiting  for  him  in  Norfolk  and  had  gone  on  up 
the  street  to  a  drug  store  which  had  bespoken 

-j-  246  -«- 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

itself  in  advance  advertising  as  we  neared  Peters- 
burg. 

Its  most  important  sign  was  that  of  a  life-sized 
young  lady  with  a  gentleman  on  either  side  of  her, 
all  three  of  them  looking  very  angry  and  resolute 
with  the  caption  underneath:  "  Going  to  Chilling- 
ford's  Drug  Store."  One  could  not  tell  from  their 
faces  what  they  were  going  there  for,  but  I  thought 
the  gentleman  on  her  right  (her  right,  not  yours) 
had  just  caught  up  with  them  as  the  other  two  had 
started  off  for  soda  water,  and  as  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  shake  him  the  whole  evening  was  spoiled. 

At  all  events  I  lingered  at  the  telegraph  office 
and  the  courteous  Southern  clerk  let  me  have  the 
message  back  twice  while  I  added:  "  Better  clean  if 
not  cleaned,"  and,  later,  "  Tie  box  with  strong 
string."  So  I  used  all  the  words,  and  as  the  Illus- 
trator bounced  back  from  the  drug  store  with:  "  It 
wasn't  for  soda  water,  there  isn't  any,"  I  was  so 
startled  I  nearly  put  that  in  too,  forgetting  about 
the  advertisement. 

The  hotel  was  still  alive  before  we  were  gladly 
abed.  I  doubt  if  it  is  ever  quiet  for  Petersburg  is 
more  like  a  mining  town  than  one  of  southernmost 
Virginia.  It  is  not  under  siege,  yet  the  stir  of  the 
street  is  still  from  men  to  whom  powder  is  no 
stranger.  But  they  do  not  ram  it  down  old  flint 
locks  or  pack  it  into  muskets  of  heavy  bore  and 


A  BAD  ROAD  SPRINKLED  WITH  KINDNESS 

long  barrel.  They  make  it,  thirty  thousand  strong, 
in  a  town  not  far  away.  In  two  years'  time  this 
town  grew  from  fields  of  buttercups  to  thirty  thou- 
sand souls.  All  the  shops  of  Petersburg  express  a 
willingness  in  the  windows  to  cash  Dupont  checks, 
and  from  beyond  the  doors  of  every  gin  mill 
brawlers  were  availing  themselves  of  the  offer. 
There  is  no  sweetness  in  the  main  street  at  all,  only 
prosperity. 

And  the  name  of  this  new  strange  town  where 
gun  cotton  is  made  for  gasping  nations  is  Hope- 
well. 


248 


CHAPTER  XII 

Containing  a  Church,  a  Dismal  Swamp,  and  the 

Smell  of  the  Low  Tide,  Which  Rolled  in 

Relations.    Also  Germans! 

WE  had  a  fifty-dollar  bill  to  change  before  we 
could  discharge  our  indebtedness  at  the  Petersburg 
hotel,  and  while  one  boy  was  out  collecting  very  old 
and  filthy  money,  and  another  was  whisking  dust- 
less  dust  off  of  W for  an  extra  dime,  the  pro- 
prietor was  "  registering  "  surprise  at  our  going 
over  the  Jerusalem  Plank  Road  to  Norfolk  when 
we  could  so  easily  run  up  to  Richmond,  and  from 
there  take  the  James  River  boat  down. 

If  he  had  been  in  England  he  would  probably 
have  said  our  choice  was  quaint,  and  I  would  have 
returned  that  he  was  quaint  to  think  we  would  take 
a  boat  when  we  could  take  a  motor.  However  this 
route  can  be  adopted,  and  Toby  hearing  that  the 
road  was  only  passable  was  distinctly  for  Rich- 
mond. Even  Suffolk,  the  home  of  the  peanut  of 
which  he  is  extremely  fond,  left  him  cold,  and  I 
did  not  dare  mention  the  great  battlefield  on  the 
edge  of  Petersburg  that  is  known  as  the  Crater,  for 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

i 

he  is  a  peaceable  dog  (in  time  of  war)  and  had 
thought  it  was  all  over  at  Appomattox. 

Before  we  reached  the  Crater  we  found  the  most 
interesting  church  in  all  Virginia — Old  Blandford. 
It  is  worth  reading  the  history  of  a  religious  house 
if  only  to  make  one  feel  how  much  less  heavily  the 
parishioner  is  now  taxed  by  strawberry  festivals 
and  fairs,  and  how  much  of  that  is  of  his  own 
volition.  When  it  was  decided  by  the  General 
Assembly  of  Virginia  in  1734  that  a  church  in 
this  vicinity  was  needed,  25,000  pounds  of  tobacco 
was  levied  upon  the  nearby  parish  for  the  cost 
of  building.  From  what  I  can  make  out  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  fuss  about  it,  but  the  Gov- 
ernor finally  sustained  the  vestry  and  the  edict  went 
forth,  the  specifications  ending  with  the  time  al- 
lowed them  for  completing  the  edifice.  Also 
at  the  very  tail  end:  "  Stone  Steps  to  each  door 
Suitable." 

The  vestrymen  continued  severe.  If  town  halls 
are  built  out  of  motor  fines  today  anti-Revolution- 
ary churches  were  sustained  by  just  such  levies. 
I  noted  that  profane  swearing  was  valued  at  five 
shillings,  the  same  amount  "  for  not  going  to 
church,"  five  pounds  for  gaming,  and  only  one 
pound  for  selling  "  Oats  by  false  measure  at  ye 
Bridge."  This  makes  having  a  church  all  your  own 
the  more  delectable ;  but  apart  from  that  I  wonder 

H-250-H 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

what  the  churches  would  have  done  if  every  one  had 
behaved  himself,  and  how  the  town  halls  would  be 
built  if  there  were  no  scorching! 

Old  Blandford,  gleamingly  restored,  is  now  serv- 
ing as  a  Confederate  Memorial  Chapel.  Every 
state  of  the  Confederacy  is  represented  by  a  win- 
dow in  glass.  As  I  stole  about  reading  the  inscrip- 
tions it  occurred  to  me  that  nothing  could  be  more 
fitting  for  the  emblem  of  a  soldier  than  these  deep 
reds,  glorious  purples  and  soft,  pallid  shades  of 
death  defying  a  substance  that  can  shatter,  can 
splinter,  can  be  crushed  into  atoms  but  cannot  be 
utterly  destroyed. 

The  trend  of  the  dedications  catches  the  fire  of 
the  ruby  glass.  All  speak  of  their  men  "  who  fought 
for  the  right."  One  can  find  nothing  to  resent  in 
that ;  it  makes  little  difference  for  what  you  are  con- 
tending if  you  honestly  believe  your  Cause  is  just. 
But  it  was  strange  to  find  in  that  quiet  little  church, 
its  burial  ground  sheltering  so  many  Revolutionary 
patriots  who  fought  for  one  nation,  the  flame  of  a 
resentment  that  we  do  not  recognise  in  the  streets, 
in  the  shops,  in  the  speech  of  the  people. 

There  is  a  little  tablet  to  those  men  who  fell  in 
the  Revolution  when  the  church  was  young  and 
there  was  no  North  and  South.  It  must  have  felt 
very  old  fashioned  and  out  of  place  when  all  those 
burning  windows  were  put  in  telling  the  story  of 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

strife,  brother  against  brother.  But  now,  I  believe,  it 
is  at  home  again.  On  the  other  side  of  the  pulpit  is 
a  verse  lettered  on  stone  written  by  Tyrone  Power, 
a  great  Irish  comedian,  the  great-grandfather  (I 
think)  of  the  present  actor  of  that  name.  He  went 
down  on  the  steamship  President  about  1844,  one 
of  that  great  fleet  which  left  no  story  beyond  the 
fragments  of  their  wreckage.  The  apostrophe  is 
not  in  very  good  verse,  and  I  am  a  little  uneasy 
over  what  might  be  the  punishment  for  those  who 
try  to  write  and  are  strolling  players  also. 

The  old  custodian,  who  did  not  bother  us  at  all, 
said  there  were  still  bullets  found  in  the  church- 
yard, relics  of  the  severe  fighting  in  the  effort  to 
seize  Petersburg.  Lee  finally  evacuated  the  town 
but  it  was  never  taken  by  assault,  although  Grant 
lost  10,000  lives  in  this  effort.  A  few  yards  beyond 
rise  the  earth  works  of  the  two  opposing  armies. 
To  quote  exactly  from  the  volume  which  is  now  my 
closest  friend,  the  S.  H.  of  the  U.  S. :  "  July  30th  a 
great  mine  was  sprung  under  the  Confederate 
works,  and  for  a  moment  an  open  road  existed  into 
the  rear  of  their  positions;  but  here  also  was  mis- 
management. The  troops  which  ought  to  have 
poured  through  hesitated,  probably  through  fault 
of  their  division  commander,  and  the  Confederates, 
rallying,  were  able  to  drive  back  with  great  slaugh- 
ter the  assaulting  column.  This  bloody  affair  of 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

'the  Crater'  cost  Grant  4,000  lives  without  any 
compensating  advantage." 

The  Crater  is  now  softly  covered  with  green, 
Time's  healing  hand  for  the  torn  earth.  We  can 
only  grow  philosophy  for  the  wounds  of  the  heart. 
I  wonder  if  generals  ever  think  of  the  men  they 
have  sacrificed  by  a  strategy  which  they  admit  to 
be  an  error  afterwards.  Possibly  they  do  grieve 
and  go  on  because  they  must.  Lincoln  suffered 
intensely  through  the  war,  yet  when  the  nation 
pleaded  for  an  exchange  of  prisoners  that  they 
might  get  their  sick,  ill-nourished  boys  home  again, 
he  refused  to  send  back  the  well-fed  Southerners, 
imprisoned  North,  to  fill  the  depleted  ranks  of  the 
Secessionists.  "  I  will  not  exchange  good  men  for 
scarecrows,"  he  said.  What  it  must  have  cost  him 
to  say  it !  For  Lincoln,  it  is  my  belief,  was  of  the 
"  army  of  heaven." 

I  have  allowed  myself  to  talk  a  great  deal  about 
Old  Blandford  church  and  the  Crater  because  I  am 
going  to  say  very  little  about  the  road  as  I  wish  you 
all  to  have  a  good  chapter.  The  garage  keeper  in 
Petersburg  said  we  could  travel  over  it  as  fast  as 
we  pleased,  which  was  a  safe  statement  as  it 
couldn't  possibly  please  any  one  to  go  very  fast. 
Yet  the  small  automobiles  of  this  environment  went 
bouncing  in  and  out  of  the  holes  full  of  dust  with 
the  same  abandonment  that  their  fathers  dashed 

-*-  253  -*-. 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

along  on  horseback — true  dare  devils  of  the  road. 
The  planks  had  long  been  extracted  from  the  road 
to  Jerusalem,  like  an  old  dog  rendered  less  danger- 
ous with  the  pulling  of  his  teeth.  The  landscape 
had  many  of  the  elements  which  one  must  see  be- 
fore leaving  Virginia:  fine  farms  worked  by  ne- 
groes, real  swamps,  and  patches  of  magnificent 
pine.  The  cultivated  fields  would  be  entirely  sur- 
rounding these  forests,  and  they  stood  like  soldiers 
of  a  lost  legion  making  their  last  stand  against  the 
encroachment  of  an  insidious  little  enemy  which 
worked  toward  them  like  relentless  headsmen,  axe 
in  hand. 

Firmly  in  the  middle  of  the  road  at  one  point 
we  came  to  a  gate  which  we  opened  and  closed  with- 
out any  sign  importuning  us  to  do  so.  The  mystery 
piqued  us,  and  W walked  up  a  long  path  lead- 
ing to  a  farmhouse  to  ask  why  it  was  there.  He 
addressed  several  coloured  ladies  at  the  right  of  the 
house  who  didn't  pay  the  smallest  attention  to  him, 
but  went  on  with  their  work  as  though  recompensed 
by  the  piece.  Another  woman  on  the  other  side 
the  house  responded  to  him,  however,  although — to 
my  far  off  embarrassment — he  did  not  look  at  her, 
finally  thanking  those  so  extraordinarily  labouring, 
and  returning  still  under  the  impression  that  he  had 
carried  on  a  conversation  with  them.  Our  driver 
said  it  seemed  sort  of  uncanny,  and  the  coloured 

-z-254-*- 


n 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

lady  who  had  replied  must  have  thought  him  stiff- 
necked  if  not  unregenerate,  but  it  was  really  the 
effect  of  quinine  which  ha  ^  made  him  deaf  in  one  ear 
so  that  he  could  not  locate  sounds. 

The  quinine  was  probably  superinduced  by  no- 
tices which  the  Virginia  Health  Department  has 
tacked  upon  the  trees  like  Orlando's  love  letters. 
They  give  some  grim  statistics  about  tuberculosis 
with  so  easy  a  preventive  that  one  would  think  the 
natives  could  keep  their  windows  open.  Yet  ( I  can 
argue  on  both  sides  with  perfect  ease)  it's  all  very 
nice  to  have  your  windows  open  if  you  are  well 
covered,  but  consumption  of  the  future  seems  much 
less  uncomfortable  than  the  immediate  possession 
of  a  shivering  body.  I  have  two  ideas  of  eternal 
punishment  both  of  which  keep  me  as  good  as  I  can 
possibly  manage.  One  is  eating  at  a  restaurant  in 
a  basement  full  of  smoke,  noise  and  a  big  band 
above  which  you  have  to  be  entertaining  to  pay  for 
your  supper;  and  the  other  is  to  "  sleep  cold." 

The  Health  Department  also  tells  the  habitant 
how  to  avoid  malaria  and  how  to  fight  mosquitoes, 
and  there  are  some  suggestions  as  to  the  care  of 
cattle  which  the  Illustrator  didn't  read,  although 
the  quinine  showed  the  effect  of  the  chills  and  fever 
warning.  The  advice  is  couched  in  simple  language 
so  that  the  people  may  understand,  and  there  is  no 
excuse  for  these  remedies  not  getting  about  even 

-<-255-J- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

though  the  elders,  like  Henry  Hobson,  do  not  read, 
for  I  never  saw  more  country  schools,  and  most  of 
them  built  for  lively  little  darkies.  We  found  the 
pupils  tractable  about  keeping  out  of  the  road,  as 
are  all  coloured  children.  And  I  wish  to  ask,  in 
passing,  if  any  one  ever  saw  a  coloured  baby  cry? 

All  through  Virginia,  both  by  the  many  Agri- 
cultural Stations  and  by  the  many  placards  there 
shows  a  fine  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  state  to 
take  care  of  its  children,  old  and  young,  and  if  the 
children  themselves  didn't  have  such  a  "  natural 
distaste  "  for  keeping  up  the  roads  this  atmosphere 
of  good- will  which  continually  surrounded  us  would 
make  it  a  motoring  paradise.  But  here  Toby  sug- 
gests, "  Ain't  told  about  the  gate."  He  seldom 
leaves  me  now  for  fear  I  am  not  going  to  get  him 
in  often  enough,  and  I  will  put  in  here  that  he 
behaved  abominably  this  day,  inventing  a  new 
scheme  of  leaning  out  as  far  as  possible  while  I 
held  on  to  his  tail.  He  knew  he  was  taking  the 
basest  advantage  of  me  for  I  would  hold  on  rather 
than  lose  him  no  matter  how  exhausted  I  was,  and 
it  afforded  me  but  slight  comfort  to  think  that  at 
last  some  good  use  was  made  of  an  appendage  too 
long  to  mark  him  as  a  perfectly  bred  West  High- 
lander. 

I  am  getting  back  to  the  gate  with  what  might 
be  called  a  languorous  ease  befitting  the  locality. 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

It  was  put  up  by  a  county  that  had  fences  so  that 
the  cattle  could  not  stray  from  the  next  one  which 
did  not  possess  them.  I  wish  all  the  counties  had 
gates,  then  we  could  talk  as  learnedly  as  the  natives 
of  going  from  Frederick  to  Amherst,  on  to  Ap- 
pomattox,  Prince  Edward  and  "  All  points  East." 
But  that  was  the  only  one  we  ran  across,  and  we 
continued  in  the  "  fence  county  "  until  we  reached 
Courtland.  Here  we  found  a  new  sign  forbidding 
us  to  turn  corners  any  faster  than  eight  miles  an 
hour.  How  few  of  us  have  given  thought  to  the 
rapidity  of  our  turning  corners  both  in  motoring 
and  in  life! 

Fearful  of  whizzing  around  too  rapidly  we  held 
to  a  straight  line  until  we  reached  a  hotel.  It  was 
past  the  lunch  hour,  but  I  walked  through  to  the 
dining  room  and  found  two  ladies,  vague  sort  of 
hostesses,  still  talking  it  over.  The  Southerners 
have  the  magnificent  hospitality  of  the  peasant  and 
the  grandee :  if  you  will  take  what  is  there  you  are 
welcome  to  it.  They  sat  with  us  through  luncheon 
which  a  coloured  boy,  scenting  a  quarter  from  afar, 
appeared  in  time  to  serve,  and  the  fattest  of  the 
fat  ladies  said  that  her  kin  had  gone  to  Richmond 
by  automobile  in  two  hours.  They  always  say  this, 
and  no  doubt  they  always  do  it.  Our  motor  alone 
seems  to  limp  through  life. 

I  walked  across  to  the  jail  yard  which  lay  across 
-4-257-*- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

the  street.  They  were  having  a  very  pleasant  time 
in  the  jail  where  we  could  hear  loud  black  laughter, 
meaning  the  laughter  of  blacks,  but  a  man  who 
was  making  a  house  next  door  said  they  were  only 
just  pretending,  as  nobody  was  ever  really  happy 
in  jail.  He  ought  to  know  for  he  had  spent  the 
night  there,  and  was  set  to  work  upon  his  return 
to  the  world  through  the  philanthropy  of  a  builder 
who  was  short  handed.  This  I  learned  from  our 
driver  of  whom  he  had  tried  to  borrow  the  price  of 
a  drink  for  the  reason  that  both  of  them  were  from 
the  North.  He  knew  little  of  Courtland  as  he  had 
fallen  off  a  freight  train,  and,  presumably,  the 
water  wagon  at  the  same  time. 

He  should  have  looked  from  his  jail  window  to 
enjoy  the  cannon  that  was  installed  there  alongside 
a  monument  to  the  Confederacy.  It,  too,  was  a 
Northerner  and  had  also  fallen  off  a  train  while 
going  further  South  with  Union  troops  during  the 
Civil  War.  But  I  can  imagine  it  receiving  a 
warmer  welcome  than  had  the  hobo-carpenter.  The 
little  shaft  of  marble  bears  the  list  of  companies 
who  had  gone  from  that  neighbourhood — a  gallant 
number  of  soldiers  to  be  mustered  from  such  a 
slightly  peopled  community.  And  it  is  hard  to  tell 
why  the  inscription,  set  below  what  seems  to  be  a 
bas  relief  of  fighting  gladiators,  should  run  "  Sic 
semper  tyrannis."  Although  the  motto  of  Vir- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

ginia,  it  is  hardly  a  fitting  memorial  to  their 
dead. 

My  arms  burned  through  my  coat  sleeves  that  af- 
ternoon and  at  Holland  where  we  all  stopped  for 
grape  juice,  Toby  declined  to  re-enter  the  car. 
"  Holland  for  me,"  he  said  ably  upheld  by  the  citi- 
zens who  had  taken  a  shine  to  him.  '  What's  the 
fare  to  New  York? "  he  kept  asking  impersonally, 
like  many  a  disgruntled  actor  who  has  no  thought 
of  leaving.  Although  peanuts  in  Suffolk  finally 
teased  him  on,  he  forgot  them  as  we  waited  there 
for  a  freight  train  to  make  up  its  mind.  It  is  un- 
kind to  a  coquette  to  liken  her  to  a  freight  train, 
but  I  don't  suppose  the  freight  objects  to  being  lik- 
ened to  a  woman.  If  it  does  object  there  is  simply 
no  pleasing  it.  But  the  way  they  both  giggle  and 
cough,  run  one  way  then  the  other,  and  always  so 
the  whole  town  can  see  it — back  and  forth  across 
Main  Street — is  enough  to  start  a  scandal.  The 
freight  train,  I  believe,  has  time  called  on  it  and 
must  clear  the  way  by  order  of  the  selectmen,  but 
no  men,  select  or  otherwise,  would  tell  a  coquette 
she  is  getting  a  bit  tiresome.  One  may  rightly  in- 
fer by  this  that  I  was  not  a  flirt  in  my  youth,  al- 
though I  probably  longed  to  be  one  instead  of  that 
unfortunate  type  of  girl  called  "  bright." 

The  Illustrator  would  not  encourage  the  ogling 
cars  by  even  looking  at  them  (an  attitude  which  I 

-j-259-t- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

trust  he  maintains  when  coquettes  are  blocking  his 
way) ,  but  went  down  in  a  cellar  after  Toby  who 
had  gone  off  with  a  select  circle  of  Suffolk  dogs.  I 
hurried  away  to  send  surreptitiously  a  telegram 
concerning  his  slippers  (the  master's  slippers,  not 
Toby's,  which  I  had  left  behind  in  Petersburg) ,  and 
the  chauffeur  solemnly  exchanged  cards  with  a 
likely  looking  coloured  boy  who  wished  to  come  to 
New  York  to  be  a  chauffeur.  He  had  no  training 
for  the  job  beyond  the  mastery  of  shoe  blacking,  but 
he  thought  it  would  be  mighty  nice  to  ride  around. 

One  often  ponders  over  the  taxi-cab  drivers, 
especially  as  they  whiz  about  corners  somewhat 
faster  than  eight  miles  an  hour.  Do  they  receive 
a  "  call "  to  be  chauffeurs,  is  it  a  mechanical  talent 
striving  for  expression,  or  is  it  from  a  desire  just 
to  ride  around?  The  negroes  are  not  good  drivers, 
and  I  wish  more  of  them  would  stay  in  the  South 
to  work  the  farms,  for  they  seem  to  have  a  real 
talent  for  making  the  ground  smile  and  the  cattle 
thrive,  but  the  lure  of  the  city  takes  no  cognizance 
of  race,  creed,  or  colour. 

The  young  men  I  would  most  warmly  welcome 
to  the  chauffeur's  seat  are  those  whose  weak  lungs 
threaten  complete  giving  out  if  they  remain  behind 
counters  or  desks.  I  became  very  friendly  with  a 
taxi-cab  driver  one  night  as  he  put  on  a  tire  in  the 
heart  of  Central  Park;  his  intelligence  while  driv- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

ing  and  his  excellence  of  speech  while  talking  set 
me  to  questioning  him.  I  found  that  he  had  been  a 
newspaper  editor  with  a  family  to  support,  and  no 
means  to  carry  him  to  Arizona  when  he  became 
tubercular.  So  he  slept  on  the  roof  of  his  apart- 
ment house  and  kept  in  the  open  air  by  driving  a 
cab,  and  his  physician  had  already  pronounced  him 
well  out  of  danger. 

Somewhere  along  this  way  W made  a 

sketch  of  the  upper  end  of  the  Great  Dismal 
Swamp  while  I  fought  off  small  embryo  chills  and 
fever  which  were  trying  to  bite  him.  The  mosqui- 
toes come  early  in  Virginia,  although  the  hotels 
were  so  well  screened  that  the  guest  is  not  troubled 
with  them.  They  were  eerie  swamps  through  which 
one  could  paddle  for  forty  miles  or  more,  the  trees 
having  a  sort  of  elephantiasis  of  the  trunks,  which 
isn't  so  remarkable  for  trunks,  considering  the  ani- 
mal most  addicted  to  them.  The  water  was  clear, 
and  it  could  not  be  stagnant  for  a  planing  mill 
was  always  somewhere  on  the  edge  reducing  the 
great  pine  trees  into  timber  for  the  ugly  new  habi- 
tations of  this  neighbourhood. 

It  must  cause  a  fine  tree  much  suffering  to  be 
turned  into  an  ungraceful  house.  While  I  know 
it  would  terrify  a  carpenter,  the  most  conventional 
of  men,  to  ask  him  to  build  you  a  dwelling  some- 
thing on  the  lines  of  a  tree  he  might  strive  to  make 

-j-261-i- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

it  as  beautiful  in  one  form  as  it  was  in  the  other. 
After  all,  Gothic  architecture  was  suggested  by  the 
arching  of  tree  tops,  and  the  top  of  the  Corinthian 
column  created  from  the  growing  up  of  acanthus 
leaves  about  a  jar  set  upon  the  ground,  and  I  don't 
know  why,  with  a  little  perseverance,  we  shouldn't 
have  houses  of  arborial  shape. 

I  am  hurrying  on  to  something  very  interesting 
now  so  that  you  will  stop  wondering  if  there  is  any 

such  word  as  arborial.  W had  been  expecting 

the  novelty  which  greeted  us,  but  I  felt  no  reason 
for  the  sudden  appearance  of  some  slight  advice — 
which  was  probably  not  taken.  It  was  not  the  ad- 
vice which  was  important,  but  the  name  of  the  ad- 
visor who  had  put  up  the  sign.  It  read:  Tide- 
water Automobile  Association,  and  received  three 
honks  of  our  horn.  It  blew  like  a  cool  breeze  from 
the  ocean  upon  far  prairies,  for  the  character  of  the 
plantation  was  still  most  evident.  It  filled  us  with 
delight,  and  once  more  we  thanked  the  ingenuity  of 
man  which  made  the  self-propelled  vehicle  a  prac- 
tical machine  for  the  swift  embracing  of  many 
climes. 

Last  Summer  we  took  a  drive  behind  that  pre- 
historic animal,  the  horse,  and  I  found  myself  so 
impatient  with  the  pace  that  I  fear  we  ourselves 
have  developed  into  machines — of  less  endurance, 
perhaps,  than  the  previous  generation,  but  tuned 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

to  go  as  long  as  we  hold  together  at  something 
faster  than  a  trot.  This  troubled  me,  and  out  of 
compliment  to  the  horse  I  went  to  the  races  this 
year.  We  all  called  {{ Come  on! "  as  the  lovely 
creatures  neared  the  finish,  but  most  of  us  may  not 
have  been  exhorting  our  favourites  to  a  successful 
finish,  rather  were  annoyed  by  the  old  fashioned 
leisure  with  which  they  were  swinging  around  the 
track. 

We  came  upon  Tidewater  shortly  afterwards, 
represented  by  a  spur  of  the  James  River  which 
had  made  a  short  cut  through  Virginia  to  greet  us 
expansively  at  the  sea  level.  Between  this  point 
and  Norfolk  is  an  interesting  section  of  the  coun- 
try to  those  who  like  early  vegetables.  Most  of 
those  we  get  in  the  New  York  markets  come  from 
here ;  early  peas  on  the  night  of  the  second  of  May 
were  being  shipped  from  the  vines  to  reach  your 
table  May  fourth.  We  found  something  very  per- 
sonal in  this  and  wished  to  pin  a  note  on  one  of  the 
pods  to  see  if  it  reached  any  of  our  friends. 

There  are  miles  of  these  truck  gardens  worked 
both  by  negroes  and  white  men.  They  cannot  spare 
an  inch  for  beauty  beyond  the  lovely  orderliness 
of  nurtured  green  things.  The  little  houses  stand 
squarely  in  the  middle  of  the  fields  without  flowers 
or  trees — only  the  luxuries  of  other  people  to  look 
out  upon.  We  were  bidden  by  one  gardener  to 

-J-263-?- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

ask  of  the  turn  when  we  reached  the  Masonic  Lodge 
for  coloured  people  whose  emblems  we  would  recog- 
nise. We  found  this  easily  enough,  although  the 
building  possessed  a  more  striking  guiding  mark. 
The  basement  was  a  place  of  worship  which  some 
laboured  chalking  on  a  blackboard  admitted  to  be : 
"  Church  of  God  and  Saints  of  Christ." 

Several  very  ebony  saints  were  sitting  on  the 
steps,  chanting  melodiously.  It  was  a  shame  to 
stop  them  to  ask  for  anything  so  trivial  as  Ports- 
mouth, but  they  stopped  of  their  own  volition,  not 
so  much  to  tell  us  of  the  way  but  for  the  reason 
that  a  piercing  and  more  lovely  note  than  even  their 
sweet  voices  cleft  the  air.  We  were  all  very  still 
in  this  lonesome  little  settlement,  the  darkies  with 
their  heads  uplifted  while  they  whispered,  "  Sho' 
enuff — huccome  that  bird  hyah  so  soon!  " 

And  "  sho'  enuff "  it  was  the  first  nightingale 
of  the  season  which  had  also  managed  to  give  us  a 
welcome  to  Tidewater  Virginia.  I  suppose  it  is 
really  the  mocking  bird,  this  Southern  songster, 
with  some  very  fine  foreign  notes  which  it  must 
have  acquired  by  hearing  that  popular  phonograph 
record  of  the  Italian  nightingale.  But  it  brought 
me  back  to  a  Winter  spent  in  an  orange  grove  in 
Florida  when  I  was  eighteen  and  the  world  was  be- 
fore me.  I  can  see  now  the  black  blotches  that  the 
little  round  trees  made  when  the  moon  was  full. 

-j-264-?- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

The  tall  pines  rose  like  a  frowning  wall  around 
the  homestead;  a  little  lake  glimmered  at  the  foot 
of  the  grove.  The  scent  of  the  orange  blossoms 
rendered  my  simple  room  as  exotic  as  a  perfumed 
bedchamber  of  the  Alhambra.  The  mocking  birds 
sang  the  livelong  night,  the  alligators  snored,  and 
the  pines  mourned  in  the  wind  because  they  were 
out  of  the  garden.  I  planned  my  life  in  the  moon- 
light. I  would  not  do  this — and  I  would  do  that. 
Such  a  thing  was  out  of  the  question — no,  cer- 
tainly not.  I'd  be  the  greatest  in  the  world — noth- 
ing else.  A  king  at  the  door  ? Oh,  well,  let  him 

come  in.  It  was  all  wonderful.  I  was  too  old  to 
go  to  sleep — too  young  to  stay  awake. 

When  we  reached  Portsmouth  where  we  must 
ferry  across  a  smaller  river  known  as  Elizabeth  to 
Norfolk,  a  man  ran  after  us  to  say  we  would  find 
an  asphalted  street  if  we  took  a  turn  to  the  right. 
Of  course  we  wanted  to  burst  into  tears  at  his  kind- 
ness, feeling  very  sympathetically  with  our 
chauffeur  who  repeated  all  through  the  South: 
"  Never  saw  anything  like  them — never  saw  any- 
thing like  them." 

W was  especially  enthusiastic  over  Norfolk 

as  his  Aunt  Mary  Ann  had  lived  her  kind  and  use- 
ful life  there,  and  a  number  of  kin  were  still  about 
with  whom  he  was  remarkably  friendly.  He  said 
it  was  no  trouble  at  all  to  like  Southern  relations, 

-e-265-e- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

but  I  have  found  out  something  more  remarkable 
than  that:  it  is  no  trouble  at  all  to  like  your  hus- 
band's relations  both  North  and  South.  A  woman 
may  feel  a  little  lonely  by  this  strange  affection. 
She  will  have  nothing  to  talk  about  with  her  other 
married  friends,  but  the  dazed  appreciation  of  the 
relatives  themselves  will  make  up  for  any  loss  of 
social  prestige. 

W was  liking  everybody.  On  the  ferry 

boat  he  felt  that  he  had  nothing  but  friends  in  the 
crowd  about  him — if  not  second  cousins.  He  stirred 
up  a  conversation  with  two  soft  spoken  passengers 
over  the  calamity  that  was  to  settle  on  Virginia 
when  it  went  "  dry  "  in  November.  He  assumed 
that  his  new  acquaintances,  since  they  were  Nor- 
folkites,  or  at  least  Portsmouthians,  would  feel  as 
he  did,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  finished  his  pre- 
diction of  the  doom  of  the  fair  state  that  both  of  the 
men  admitted  they  had  voted  "  dry  "  themselves. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  any  one  he  would 
ever  talk  to  could  be  on  the  other  side.  We  all 
feel  that  a  measure  is  so  impossible  if  we  do  not 
approve  of  it,  and  the  thought  doesn't  come  to  us 
that  the  vote  would  not  have  gone  that  way  if  more 
had  not  wanted  the  measure  than  had  voted  against 
it.  I  remember  when  the  party  that  was  not  my 
father's  came  into  power,  and  his  waking  up  the 
family  to  tell  us  of  the  election  at  some  terrible 

-K266-J- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

late  hour — eleven  o'clock  or  even  midnight.  My 
older  sister,  a  seer  of  twelve,  was  very  positive  as 
to  our  finish.  She  said  the  country  would  go  to  the 
dogs  immediately,  and  I  watched  furtively  for  the 
dogs,  losing  a  little  faith  in  her  but  enjoying  an 
immense  relief  when  we  continued  on  without  so 
much  as  the  baying  of  hounds. 

It  was  not  the  Illustrator's  only  disappointment 
of  the  evening.  It  was  prefaced  by  triumph  for  he 
drove  to  the  Monticello  Hotel  without  asking  a 
question,  and  a  question  to  a  man  is  a  confession  of 
weakness.  He  was  sure  of  his  streets  although  new 
car  lines  going  to  new  suburbs  might  have  con- 
fused him,  and  tall  sky  scrapers  had  replaced  many 
of  the  buildings  of  his  aunt's  day.  He  steered  by 
the  harbour  lights  like  a  true  mariner,  and,  reaching 
port,  was  greeted  by  the  bell  boys  as  "  Cap  "  as 
though  they  recognised  his  early  ambition  to  sail 
up  Aunt  Mary  Ann's  creek  and  take  Norfolk  by 
storm. 

We  did  not  dine  in  the  hotel  for  he  wished  to 
take  me  out  to  a  magnificent  restaurant  which  he 
had  visited  when  a  lad,  where  the  fish  were  the 
finest  in  the  world  and  the  people  assembled  there 
the  cream  of  the  city.  I  got  into  my  dinner  dress 
fearful  that  it  wasn't  good  enough,  and  we  walked 
past  the  old  Court  House  where  I  found  a  nice  yard 
evidently  built  for  hotel  dogs.  The  cafe  of  his 

.-»-  267  -t- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

youth  was  not  as  far  off  from  here  as  he  had  ex- 
pected it  to  be,  nor  was  it  as  large  nor  in  as  wide  a 
street.  And  the  patrons  assembled  there  I  should 
not  call  the  flower  of  Virginia. 

They  were  not  eating  the  fish  of  Chesapeake  Bay 
for  there  was  none  on  the  menu,  but  they  had  some 
lobsters  from  Maine,  clams  from  Little  Neck,  and  a 
boiled  New  England  dinner.  I  ordered  cold  sal- 
mon which  was  tinned,  and  the  Illustrator  had 
Delaware  River  shad  more  full  of  bones  than  usual. 

"  It's  changed,"  he  kept  repeating,  "  it's 
changed."  I  doubt  if  it  was  ever  any  better — it 
was  just  youngness,  although  I  cannot  think  that 
the  blindness  of  youth  is  preferable  to  the  keen 
eye  of  experienced  years. 

Toby  and  I  left  him  after  dinner  looking  from 
the  windows  of  his  room  upon  the  harbour.  The  sea 
has  moods,  but  it  keeps  up  its  standard  amazingly 
well  even  to  weary  spirits.  But  Toby  and  I  were 
for  the  white  lights  of  the  thoroughfare.  Up  a  side 
street  jolly  Jack  Tars  were  drifting,  and  we  drifted 
along  with  them.  They  turned  into  the  fine  build- 
ing of  the  Naval  Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  as  they  allow 
smoking  nowadays  they  probably  allow  dogs,  but  I 
was  not  eligible.  Soon  we  girls  may  get  in,  for  a 
band  was  playing  dance  music  and  it  was  very 
agreeable  even  standing  on  the  pavement. 

The  sailors  moved  respectfully  out  of  my  path 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

as  we  sauntered  up  and  down,  and  I  thought  with 
a  lump  of  gratification  in  my  throat  that  of  all  the 
men  of  Uncle  Sam  whom  I  have  encountered  in  all 
parts  of  the  country  at  every  hour  of  the  night,  I 
have  never  met  one  with  an  inclination  to  make  a 
gentlewoman  uncomfortable.  "  Underneath  the 
Stars  "  played  the  band,  and  underneath  the  stars 
of  our  country's  flag  those  nice  boys  worked,  and 
underneath  the  stars  Toby  and  I  walked,  feeling 
that  everything  was  all  right.  A  few  years  ago  a 
young  man  of  our  touring  company  was  not 
granted  permission  to  enter  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  of  a 
great  city  because  he  was  an  actor.  Now  the  stroll- 
ers come  and  go  with  the  other  young  men,  and 
the  association  fulfils  more  and  more  completely 
the  beautiful  significance  of  the  word  which  modi- 
fies it. 

I  did  not  sleep  at  first,  kept  awake  not  so  much 
by  the  clamour  of  trolleys  as  by  a  high,  thin,  con- 
stant note  which  I  recognised  as  familiar  but  could 
not  define.  Just  as  I  was  growing  nervous  about 
it  the  Illustrator  flung  open  my  door  to  exclaim: 
*  You  forgot  to  look  for  Suffolk's  greatest  ex- 
port!" 

"  Of  course,"  I  answered  oracularly,  "  it's  the 
whistle  of  a  peanut  stand,"  and  went  to  sleep. 

Norfolk  is  such  a  fine  old  city,  newly  decorated, 
that  I  should  give  its  history  instead  of  taking  space 

-J-269-?- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

to  admit  that  our  first  morning  there  began  with  a 
dog  fight.  Yet  it  throws  a  side  light  on  the  charac- 
ter of  the  citizens  to  say  that  they  enjoyed  the  fight, 
and  had  to  scrape  up  their  gallantry  with  an  effort 
to  save  the  lady's  dog. 

It  was  an  Airedale  who  licked  him  this  time.  No 
doubt  my  dog  was  to  blame,  he  had  become  more 
and  more  aggressive  as  his  stay  in  Virginia  had 
lengthened,  growing  particularly  quarrelsome 
when  on  a  leash  and  being  pulled  safely  into  the 
car.  As  he  was  still  a  puppy  he  had  not  met  every 
breed  of  dog,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  celerity  with 
which  an  Airedale  accepts  an  invitation.  I  can't 
say  that  I  came  out  very  well  myself  for  I  stood 
screaming  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  "  Are  there  no 
men  of  honour? "  or  something  like  that,  culled 
from  "  The  Two  Orphans." 

As  I  said,  the  men  became  honourable  with  a 

struggle,  and  Toby  and  W went  off  to  have  his 

wounds  dressed,  he  very  astonished  at  the  quick- 
ness on  the  trigger  of  his  opponent,  saying  every 
now  and  then  to  himself  "  Mercy !  Can't  a  feller 
growl! "  He  had  given  up  his  Southern  accent  af- 
ter the  heat  of  the  day  before  and  was  now  strongly 
neutral.  But  it  was  commendable  that  in  all  his 
excitement  he  used  only  the  sweetest  of  little 
swears,  which  ought  to  have  been,  but  was  not,  an 
example  for  his  master  to  follow. 

-*-270-<- 


WASHINGTON'S   HEADQUARTERS— THE    WYTHE   HOUSE 
ON  PALACE  GREEN,  WILLIAMSBURG 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

We  walked  in  the  little  park  before  the  old  Court 
House  after  two  pleasant  young  men  who  had  a 
dog  shop  nearby  fixed  him  up.  Our  vanity  was  re- 
stored by  an  exceptionally  intelligent  fireman  who 
stopped  to  admire  him.  In  return  I  admired  the 
fireman's  city,  which,  I  learned,  has  many  oysters 
but  few  conflagrations,  to  the  fireman's  regret,  as 
he  was  fond  of  them — and  didn't  like  oysters.  I 
hoped  he  would  turn  out  to  be  a  relative,  but  he  did 
not  seize  the  opportunity  which  was  offered,  al- 
though he  knew  the  old  Hall  where  Aunt  Mary 
Ann  had  lived,  and  poorly  suppressed  a  wish  that 
it  would  burn  up  rather  than  fall  into  disuse.  I 
replied  politely  that  if  it  did  catch  on  fire  I  was 
sure  he  would  put  it  out,  and  I  left  him  struggling 
between  sestheticism  and  duty. 

The  Illustrator  had  gone  off  with  one  of  his 
family  when  I  returned,  and  I  was  relieved  to  learn 
that  the  cousin  had  no  Airedale  with  him  when  he 
called.  A  canine  Capulet  and  Montagu  situation 
would  have  been  too  hard  to  treat  diplomatically 
no  matter  how  much  one  may  like  a  husband's  rela- 
tives. There  was  a  note  left  for  me — not  beginning 
with  darling  or  anything,  just:  "  Send  out  wash, 
Spring  hasn't  come."  This  was  a  phrase  which  I 
at  first  took  as  referring  to  a  season  fully  arrived 
in  Norfolk ;  then  I  recalled  our  fallen  leaves,  which 
more  resembled  an  Autumnal  condition.  He  looked 

-e-271-*- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

rather  Autumnal  upon  his  return,  although  a  large 
part  of  the  city's  business  has  been  suspended  while 
the  inhabitants  went  Spring  hunting  among  the  ex- 
press offices. 

Luncheon  restored  him  to  his  rightful  heritage 
of  years.  We  ate  in  the  hotel  restaurant  which 
looks  out  over  the  water  from  the  windows  of  the 
eighth  floor.  I  am  always  happy  when  eating  up 
in  the  air.  I  know  the  kitchens  are  equally  sunlit, 
and  for  the  life  of  me  I  don't  see  why  all  hotel 
kitchens  are  not  on  the  roof  instead  of  in  a  coal  hole. 
The  top  floor  is  seldom  used  except  for  storage, 
and  if  there  must  be  a  main  floor  cafe,  food  would 
not  cool  any  more  going  down  on  elevators  than 
going  up. 

It  was  not  only  sun-cooked  food  that  cheered 
us,  but  the  behaviour  of  the  personnel  after  a  very 
inebriated  patron  had  gathered  up  all  of  his  change, 
piece  by  piece,  while  his  waiter's  face  kept  lengthen- 
ing like  a  day  in  June.  As  usual  we  were  near 
a  serving  table.  It  is  not  a  valued  position  to  many 
women,  but  at  the  risk  of  soup  and  gravy  I  sit  as 
close  to  it  as  possible,  gathering  conversation  with 
grease  spots.  Abetted  by  the  Illustrator  the 
waiters  worked  themselves  into  a  state  of  hysteria 
over  their  comrade's  loss  of  his  tip,  ending  in  the 
sudden  shower  of  a  dish  of  small  oyster  crackers 
on  the  floor  about  me.  In  a  snickering  panic  they 

-H  272  -*- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

attempted  to  scoop  them  up  as  the  burly  figure  of 
the  captain  darkened  the  horizon,  and  to  my  sur- 
prise (a  surprise  instantly  controlled)  the  dish  was 
placed  at  my  elbow  with  a  patient  smile  as  though  I 
had  knocked  them  off  myself. 

There  is  only  one  incident  of  quickwittedness 
more  magnificent  than  this,  the  wits  being  exercised 
by  a  very  bacchanalian  gentleman  whom  the  Illus- 
trator was  visiting.  It  was  the  Illustrator's  aim 
to  get  him  past  his  wife's  door  without  exciting  sus- 
picion, but  the  man  fell  full  length  in  front  of  the 
severe  hostess's  portal.  Yet  though  the  legs  fal- 
tered the  mind  continued  active.  Even  as  he  lay 
sprawling  he  exclaimed  sternly:  "Walter,  I  am 
surprised  at  you,  get  up." 

They  were  not  dancing  on  the  cleared  space  in 
the  restaurant,  but  there  were  many  pretty  girls 
having  luncheon  and  ready  to  flit  over  the  floor  with 
that  detached  air  which  makes  one  feel  dancing  is 
to  them  not  an  occasion  for  waltzing  with  men  but  a 
natural  rhythmic  expression.  A  placard  on  the 
wall  positively  forbade:  "Breaking,"  and  we  im- 
portuned the  bar  waiter  as  he  was  the  gayest  per- 
son about,  to  give  us  the  meaning  of  the  word.  It 
must  be  that  there  are  more  young  men  in  Norfolk 
than1  girls  for  the  Lochinvars  have  developed  a  cus- 
tom of  breaking  in  on  a  couple,  stealing  the  lady 
and  dancing  off  with  her.  The  bar  waiter  said  the 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

management  didn't  like  it.  I  asked  him  if  the 
young  ladies  liked  it,  and  he  was  of  the  opinion 
most  young  ladies  like  to  be  "  wrastled  foh." 

The  Illustrator  made  a  great  to  do  over  the  re- 
luctant spring,  but  I  don't  know  how  we  could  have 
stayed  a  shorter  time  in  Norfolk  and  not  offended 
cousin  this  or  cousin  that.  It  was  just  by  chance 
we  met  one  of  the  dearest  of  them,  by  chance  and 
my  boasting  of  his  connections.  The  boasting  was 
not  to  a  fireman  this  time  but  to  a  very  competent 
lady  who  came  out  of  the  parish  house  of  old  St. 
Paul's  as  we  entered  the  churchyarcl.  There  was  a 
placard  in  the  graveyard  also  forbidding  "  break- 
ing," but  so  old  that  it  must  have  had  to  do  with 
flowers  and  vines  and  not  the  new  dance  obsession. 

She  walked  with  me  into  the  old  church  while 
W ran  away  as  far  as  possible  fearful  of  learn- 
ing something  historical.  She  did  not  oppress  me 
with  legends,  and  was  not  shocked  when  I  asked  her 
if  old  pew  doors  like  these  banged  during  service. 
She  said  if  the  children  had  their  way  it  would 
be  like  the  slamming  doors  of  railway  carriages 
when  a  European  train  drew  out  of  the  station. 
That  carried  us  on  to  talk  of  modern  travel  as 
we  stood  in  the  empty  church,  and,  later,  walked 
among  the  graves  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Now 
that  European  motoring  is  at  an  end  for  many 
years  to  come  she  agreed  with  me  that  this 

-f-274-J- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

was  America's  opportunity — Virginia's  opportu- 
nity. 

With  some  of  the  vigour  that  her  predecessors 
had  applied  to  the  levying  of  church  tithes  on  delin- 
quents, she  arraigned  her  state  while  she  yet  loved 
it  for  its  poorly-built  roads,  expressing  what  I  have 
longed  to  say,  but  have  kept  silent  out  of  defer- 
ence to  the  gentle  hosts  along  the  way.  "  Good 
roads,"  said  this  practical  church  woman,  "  open  up 
a  country.  They  bring  prosperity  to  the  farmer 
for  his  produce  is  in  demand.  They  re-establish  the 
inns  fallen  into  decay,  and  offer  an  income  to  many 
a  poor  woman  from  the  sale  of  cakes  and  tea  and 
milk.  A  lady  I  know  in  New  England  has  paid  off 
her  mortgage  with  braided  rugs,  but  we  can't  get 
our  people  to  recognise  their  chance  and  I  wish  you 
would  put  what  I'm  saying  in  your  book."  So  here 
it  is  "  in,"  and  I  hope  the  legislators  will  read  it. 

If  this  were  fiction  she  would  have  turned  out  to 
be  a  cousin,  but  the  next  best  thing  to  such  a  de- 
nouement was  her  finding  the  dearly  loved  relation 
for  us  in  the  parish  house,  working  among  her 
mother's  poor  as  Aunt  Mary  Ann  had  worked  for 
so  many  years.  We  both  thought  their  alertness 
significant  of  the  times,  and  as  good  an  asset  for 
the  continuance  of  the  church  spirit  as  any  pos- 
sessed by  vestry  or  clergy. 

When  we  reached  the  hotel  that  night  the  Illus- 
-»-275-f- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

trator  charged  me  with  having  neglected  to  look 
among  the  glazed  bricks  for  the  cannon  ball  which 
Lord  Dunmore  had  fired  from  the  Frigate  Liver- 
pool when  he  destroyed  all  of  the  town  save  the 
old  church  walls.  I  didn't  see  the  ball,  although  it 
is  somewhere  in  the  Illustrator's  sketch  like  a  pic- 
ture puzzle,  but  I  should  like  to  know  if  the  last 
Colonial  Governor  did  not  feel  as  though  he  were 
shelling  his  own  baby  when  he  turned  against  the 
state  he  had  fathered. 

It  was  war  again  that  day,  not  any  reliving  of  the 
Civil  War,  but  an  actual  living  of  the  present 
struggle.  We  drove  over  to  Portsmouth  to  pay  our 
compliments  to  a  friend  at  the  Navy  Yard,  and,  ac- 
companied by  an  officer,  went  over  to  the  bare  point 
beyond  the  great  shops  and  the  shining  officers' 
quarters,  where  the  two  interned  German  raiders 
were  anchored.  I  had  formed  no  picture  whatever 
in  my  mind  of  the  appearance  of  this  cloistered 
community  of  a  thousand  souls.  But  my  wildest 
imagining  could  have  conjured  up  nothing  as  fanci- 
ful as  what  was  presented  to  us.  The  two  former 
passenger  ships  stood  high  out  of  the  water,  the 
grey  of  their  war  paint  worn  down  to  a  sort  of  red 
rust;  between  the  water's  edge  and  the  circle  of 
American  marines,  armed  with  short  muskets,  who 
mounted  guard  over  these  aliens  on  a  strip  of 
waste  land. 

'-*•  276  -*- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

Perhaps  I  should  say  it  had  been  waste  land — 
the  scrap  heap  of  the  yards.  But  the  United  States 
Commandant  had  given  the  men  permission  to  go 
ashore  upon  this  dreary  strip,  to  do  what  they 
pleased  with  it,  to  use — since  they  singularly 
begged  for  the  privilege — the  bits  of  wreckage,  old 
sail  cloth,  old  barrel  hoops,  old  timbers  which  added 
to  the  mournfulness  of  the  scene. 

And  now  a  Spotless  Town  stands  on  the  re- 
claimed land,  a  little  town  for  children  to  play  in — 
which  children  never  see — built  by  those  able  hands 
which  cannot  keep  unemployed.  There  were 
streets  and  streets  of  little  houses,  not  much  higher 
than  a  man's  head,  made  of  frame,  covered  with 
canvas  and  painted  on  the  exterior  after  the  fashion 
of  their  fatherland.  Red  canvas  chimneys  rise  from 
each  house,  wooden  storks  stand  upon  the  roof  trees 
or  sit  upon  painted  wooden  nests.  Each  house  has 
a  little  yard,  and  the  wooden  storks  look  down  upon 
live  ducks  swimming  in  miniature  lakes,  upon  strut- 
ting cocks,  upon  goats  carefully  tethered  from  the 
flowering  plants.  Und  die  Gdnse!  Ach  Gott,  die 
Gdnse!  standing  in  front  of  the  motor  and  hissing 
at  us  as  they  had  hissed  on  German  roads. 

The  barrel  hoops  were  used  to  make  formal  gar- 
dens, the  flowers  bloomed  out  of  the  desert,  and  a 
tiny  public  park  with  a  fountain  was  under  con- 
struction when  we  were  there.  The  officers'  wives 

-J-277-*- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

who  come  over  from  Norfolk  daily  were  plant- 
ing little  trees  in  the  park,  assisted  by  the  sailors 
during  their  recreation  hours.  A  windmill  was  but 
just  completed,  making  its  first  revolution  as  we 
were  watching  it.  The  sailors  laughed  and  cheered 
as  shipwrecked  men  on  a  desert  island  must  laugh 
and  cheer  when  a  sail  is  sighted.  Some  of  them 
stopped  to  talk  with  us  in  our  tongue,  for  they  had 
been  stewards  when  the  huge  ships  of  the  North 
German  Lloyd  carried  Americans  from  one 
friendly  shore  to  another. 

It  was  all  like  the  dream  of  a  little  Gretchen — 
then  we  looked  at  the  massive  inert  vessels  again. 
These  simple  men  of  the  Kronprinz  Wilhelm,  who 
with  their  companions  of  the  Prinz  Eitel  FriedricJi, 
were  making  the  gardens,  had  slipped  out  of  New 
York  harbour  on  a  foggy  night,  furiously  laid  on 
the  grey  paint  of  war,  brought  guns  from  their  hid- 
ing places,  and  swept  the  seas  of  their  enemy  be- 
fore they  returned  to  the  dull  incarceration  that 
awaited  them.  Eight  of  them  broke  their  parole 
and  swam  across  to  Norfolk.  Since  then  our  gov- 
ernment boats  guard  them  from  the  water  side,  and 
since  the  Kronprinz  stole  out  of  New  York  harbour 
the  United  States  has  spent  thousands  of  dollars 
in  the  maintenance  of  patrol  boats  near  Sandy 
Hook.  They  are  costing  us  a  great  deal  of  money 
— these  makers  of  doll  houses. 

-j-278-*- 


CONTAINING  A  CHURCH 

As  we  repassed  through  the  navy  yards  our  flags 
slid  down  at  half  mast.  We  stopped  to  inquire  and 
learned  that  one  of  the  strangers  in  a  strange  land 
had  just  died  in  our  naval  hospital.  Something 
more  than  an  appreciation  of  expenditure  possessed 
us  as  we  turned  our  backs  upon  the  Germans. 
They  were  costing  us  an  unexpected  sympathy. 


279 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Female  Number!    We  L*eave  ff  Sweetie  "  but 

Acquire  Williamsburg  and  a  Number  of  Dates. 

Also  the  Story  of  Timorous  Mary  Cary 

WE  left  Norfolk  the  next  afternoon  after  a  full 
evening  the  night  before — relatively,  not  alcohol- 
ically  speaking.  A  very  lovely  distant  kith  and  kin 
called  "  Sweetie  "  came  to  see  us  off.  "  I  don't 

know  her  married  name,"  I  said  to  W in  a 

panic,  but  he  answered  that  "  Sweetie  "  was  suffi- 
cient. He  said  it  so  enthusiastically  that  I  imagine 
she  was  no  relative  at  all,  and  I  could  not  blame  him 
if  he  had  urged  her  to  become  one  before  I  crossed 
his  path. 

We  were  going  on  to  Williamsburg  still  spring- 
less,  as  the  Farmville  smith's  clamp  held.  A  bank 
president  had  taken  up  the  matter  of  reforwarding 
the  spring  to  Richmond  where  I  was  also  hoping 
to  find  the  Illustrator's  slippers.  Owing  to  his  ac- 
tivities he  had  not  as  yet  missed  them.  While  a 
bank  president  got  us  started  a  girl  driving  a  big 
car  kept  us  going.  She  found  us  mooning  about 
the  beautiful  new  part  of  Norfolk,  which  might 

H-280-+- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

have  been  Detroit  or  Cleveland  for  all  the  Elsie 
Dinsmore  houses  it  possessed. 

This  was  my  only  disappointment  in  Norfolk.  I 
had  abandoned  the  search  for  estates  like  Roselands 
among  the  southernmost  regions,  feeling  that  a 
greater  triumph  awaited  me  if  I  could  discover  the 
Illustrator's  blood  in  something  better  than  hers. 
But  the  Hall  where  they  had  lived,  whose  front 
door  was  never  locked  for  fear  of  barring  out  a 
friend  in  need,  was  now  surrounded  by  mean 
cabins.  The  inlet  of  the  river  at  the  back  of  the 
garden  where  the  children  once  fished  for  crabs, 
was  filled  in,  and  the  family  at  present  fumed  in 
what  I  thought  to  be  over-large  apartments,  but 
where  they  felt  "  smothered." 

The  young  girl  driving  the  big  car  said  we  must 
make  a  detour  to  reach  Sewell's  Point  where  we 
took  the  ferry  for  Newport  News,  and  while  this 
was  in  flat  contradiction  to  what  a  motoring  expert 
told  us  at  the  hotel,  she  was  gloriously  right.  We 
made  a  detour  but  missed  the  ferry,  and  I  took 
off  my  hat,  as  we  waited  for  another  boat,  to  trim 
it  with  new  flowers  purchased  at  a  five-  and  ten-cent 
store  for  twenty-five  cents  a  bunch. 

An  old  lady  in  the  ferry  house  admired  the  posies 
and  talked  of  the  poor  prices  that  must  be  paid  the 
flower  makers  of  such  inexpensive  goods.  But  she 
said  it  was  the  way  unskilled  workers  had  to  learn, 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

and  she  always  found  that  good  labour  could  com- 
mand good  prices.  It  made  me  feel  much  more 
comfortable  over  my  modestly-priced  decorations, 
and  when  they  faded  from  rose  to  grey  in  an  after- 
noon I  lost  all  compunction  over  the  investment. 

When  the  ferry  came  she  went  into  the  negro 
cabin.  I  had  thought  her  a  tanned  farmer's  wife, 
which  I  trust  will  give  no  offence  to  the  Southerner 
of  quality  for  she  was  very,  very  white.  I  grew 
quite  cold  on  the  boat  thinking  of  the  unintentional 
resentment  that  I  might  arouse  by  some  of  the 
things  I  was  going  to  write,  and  I  get  so  cold  now 
conjuring  up  the  contempt  with  which  my  laboured 
dialect  will  be  received  that  I  want  to  go  shopping 
and  never  try  to  be  a  scribe  again.  I  have  always 
said  that  every  one  of  my  literary  efforts  should  be 
prefaced  with  "  Please  remember  she  is  an  actress." 
And  on  every  program  of  the  plays  in  which  I  ap- 
pear should  run  the  pleading:  "Be  merciful,  she  is 
a  writer." 

"  Stick  in  the  negro  dialect,  if  you  must,  but 
leave  the  Southern  accent  alone,"  comments  the  Il- 
lustrator, after  a  horrid  silence  as  he  finishes  each 
chapter.  Just  as  if  poor  coloured  folks  couldn't 
have  their  feelings  hurt  too! 

There  was  sufficient  distraction  on  the  boat, 
above  it  rather,  for  aeroplanes  and  hydroplanes 
were  dipping  all  around  us,  and  I  felt  suddenly 

•-»-  282  -*- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

guilty  as  though  the  ferry  were  an  enemy  to  them. 
The  Curtiss  Flying  School  is  near  the  ferry  slip  in 
Newport  News.  I  had  not  seen  one  since  we  visited 
the  Farman  and  Voisin  schools  at  Mourmelon  eight 
years  ago — the  Mourmelon  that  has  been  shattered 
by  the  German  guns.  It  was  so  gay  there  then. 
Flying  was  a  sport,  as  fashionable  as  a  new  dance 
step  and  as  dangerously  enticing  as  a  fair,  wicked 
woman.  At  Newport  News  that  day  every  stac- 
cato stab  of  the  engines  above  us  was  as  the  beat  of 
a  martial  drum. 

The  turn  at  the  right  for  Fortress  Monroe  and 
Old  Point  Comfort  carried  us  through  Hampton 
where  there  is  a  church  which  every  one  should  see 
and  to  which  we  paid  no  attention.  '  There  are 
some  churches  ahead  you  know,"  remarked  the  Il- 
lustrator when  I  weakly  suggested  stopping.  It 
reminded  me  of  a  miserable  American  husband  I 
overheard  in  a  Paris  agency  who  was  asking  his 
wife  why  they  were  going  on  some  complex  excur- 
sion. "  A  church  is  there,"  she  answered  severely. 
"  Great  Scott,  Daisy,"  groaned  the  tired  business 
man,  "  this  is  all  wrong.  I'm  a  Baptist." 

In  Tidewater  Virginia  revolutionary  churches 
were  nothing  to  us.  In  rapid  historical  retrogres- 
sion (as  far  as  years  were  concerned)  we  had 
passed  from  ante  bellum  days  through  the  revolu- 
tionary period  to  that  early  time  dating  from  1600 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

when  Virginia  was  but  a  cradle  for  struggling,  em- 
bryo Americans. 

The  peninsula  over  which  we  were  travelling  is 
the  same  pleasant  green  land  that  met  the  straining 
eyes  of  the  London  Company  when  Captain  New- 
port of  England  made  his  way  up  the  broad  river, 
and  founded  the  first  settlement  that  endured.  He 
called  it  James-Towne,  after  his  King;  the  great 
river,  known  by  the  Indians  as  the  Powhatan,  was 
changed  to  his  sovereign's  name.  Capes  Henry  and 
Charles,  flanking  Chesapeake  Bay  received  their 
titles  from  the  two  Princes,  while  James's  daugh- 
ter, Elizabeth,  drew  the  subsidiary  river  at  Nor- 
folk. It  remained  for  John  Smith — who,  I  have 
read,  entered  this  new  country  in  shackles — to  dub 
the  strip  of  land  adjacent  to  our  present  Fortress 
Monroe,  Old  Point  Comfort.  But  this  last  chris- 
tening was  in  1608  after  he  got  out  of  irons  and 
began  making  things  hum  in  the  Colony. 

The  point  of  land  couldn't  have  brought  him 
much  comfort  at  the  time,  but  a  discoverer  must  be 
gifted  with  a  vision  far  beyond  his  century.  He 
must  have  foreseen  what  a  cc  mf ort  it  was  going  to 
be  to  those  running  down  by  boat  from  New  York, 
or  up  by  boat  from  the  Southern  points,  and  what 
a  delight  as  well,  to  the  young  girls  with  all  the 
officers  coming  over  from  the  fort  to  attend  the 
dances. 

-i- 284-*- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

The  Chamberlin  is  the  only  hotel  standing  now, 
a  highly  satisfactory  building  one  should  judge  by 
the  contented  expression  of  the  fat  ladies  on  the 
verandas.  I  refused  to  stay  in  it  long  enough  for 
a  cup  of  tea,  but  was  drawn  out  on  the  wharf  to 
examine  hundreds  of  barrels  of  crab  meat  going 
up  to  New  York.  I  didn't  know  there  could  be  so 
much  in  the  world,  but  the  dealers  can  do  away 
with  one  order  less  for  I  heard  a  young  woman  not 
long  ago  talking  to  another  on  the  top  of  a  bus. 
She  said  she  wasn't  going  to  be  bored  by  him  any 
longer — that  a  supper  wasn't  worth  it.  "  No,"  she 
reiterated,  "  his  crab  meat  isn't  good  enough  for 
me"  which  I  thought  was  a  very  fine  title  for  a 
popular  song,  and  admired  her  as  a  surprising 
young  lady.  We  must  arrive  at  full  years  as  a  rule 
before  we  prefer  the  contented  dinner  of  herbs  to 
the  stalled  ox. 

This  far  end  of  the  peninsula  is  under  military 
rule,  a  condition  which  did  not  fill  me  with  horror 
as  it  always  does  in  Germany.  A  sway  under  brass 
buttons  assures  the  visitor  in  America  a  pure  glass 
of  water,  proper  sanitation  and  a  certain  brilliant 
order  which  has  nothing  to  do  with  Don'ts.  We 
drove  about  the  interior  of  the  fort,  the  Illustrator 
pointing  out  little  rooms  in  the  old  fortifications 
where  he  had  dined  at  the  officers'  mess.  (An 
awful  name — mess,  in  common  parlance,  but  ren- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

dered  neat  when  applied  to  the  military,  as  though 
their  discipline  could  "  red "  up  even  a  table 
d'hote.)  Some  of  the  quarters  were  also  in  these 
snake-like  mounds,  the  people  living  under  the  sod 
as  though  buried  alive.  The  little  windows  look- 
ing out  on  the  water  side  may  have  once  served  for 
the  Garagantuan  mouth  of  cannon.  On  high  stone 
masonry  were  the  great  new  guns  deadly  enough 
for  any  enemy,  it  would  seem,  although  the  enemy 
by  this  time  is  probably  trying  to  develop  weapons 
even  more  defying,  so  steady  is  the  progression  of 
artillery. 

Not  until  we  again  reached  Newport  News  were 
we  out  of  military  atmosphere  and  the  salt  of  the 
sea  stayed  deliciously  with  us.  Troops  of  horse 
were  clattering  along  the  fine  road,  not  cavalry  but 
artillery  men,  I  imagine.  At  one  time  the  choice 
regiments  were  the  horsemen,  but  the  present 
world's  war  which  has  dealt  so  largely  in  great  field 
pieces,  may  develop  a  preference  to  motoring  on 
gun  carriages  instead  of  sweeping  along  on  horse- 
back. 

It  was  a  piscatorial  afternoon  for  our  compan- 
ions of  the  road.  We  were  constantly  passing  men 
and  women  with  shining  bunches  of  fish  at  their 
side  like  silver  chatelaines.  It  seemed  most  unfash- 
ionable to  be  without  fish,  and  we  determined  to 
have  some  at  Williamsburg,  although  we  would  not 

-j-286-J- 


THE  RUIXED  TOWER  AT  JAMESTOWN 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

be  carrying  them  about  so  noticeably.  Supper  at 
Williamsburg  was  not  as  predominant  in  our  minds 
as  was  Yorktown.  This  may  have  been  for  the  rea- 
son that  we  were  not  as  yet  hungry,  but  we  put  it 
down  to  patriotism — something  like  Toby's  cour- 
age in  time  of  peace.  At  all  events  we  were  deter- 
mined to  run  down  from  Hallstead's  Point  to  see 
where  Cornwallis  sent  his  sword  to  General  Wash- 
ington. Unlike  Lee  he  did  not  feel  well  enough 
to  offer  it  personally;  unlike  Grant,  Washington 
accepted  the  sword  through  General  Lincoln,  but, 
later,  sent  it  back  by  the  officer  who  had  borne  it 
to  Patriot  Headquarters. 

At  Hallstead's  Point  where  we  made  the  turn, 
a  shopkeeper  became  related  to  W by  ad- 
dressing him  as  "  brother  "  and  warning  him  of  a 
storm.  But  it  occurred  to  us  if  11,200  Americans 
and  7,800  French  Regulars  had  courageously  ad- 
vanced on  Yorktown,  there  was  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  do  it — especially  as  we  were  shut  up 
in  an  isinglass  show  case.  The  old  town  could  have 
made  little  resistance  even  if  our  mild  machine  had 
advanced  upon  it.  McClellan  at  the  time  of  the 
Civil  War,  largely  destroyed  what  was  left  of  the 
revolutionary  houses.  Only  the  Custom  House  re- 
mains, one  of  a  gentle  line  of  old  buildings,  to  show 
that  prior  to  the  Revolution  it  was  the  largest  port 
of  Virginia. 

H-287-+- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

The  storming  done  that  day  was  by  the  elements 
which  prevented  a  sketch,  although  we  received  the 
attack  with  soldierly  fortitude.  I  like  to  "  put  up  " 
with  discomforts  nowadays.  I  like  to  "  grin  and 
bear  it  "  when  pain  creeps  over  me.  I  like  to  "  sit 
tight "  when  melancholy  shows  a  desire  to  render 
my  philosophy  mere  sophistry.  So  many  other  peo- 
ple in  the  world  are  having  a  much  drearier  time 
of  it. 

When  we  find  that  our  funds  and  our  patience 
are  a  little  exhausted  with  well  doing,  let  us  read 
the  history  of  Yorktown  where  more  French  were 
killed  than  Americans;  read  of  Beaumarchais  in 
Paris  who  ran  so  joyfully  to  tell  King  Louis  of 
the  defeat  of  Burgoyne  that  he  dislocated  his  arm; 
read — if  we  are  swollen  with  pride  of  birth — of  the 
rich  farmers  in  Pennsylvania  who  let  the  soldiers 
of  Valley  Forge  starve  since  the  army  possessed 
only  American  notes,  and  sold  their  produce  to  the 
British  in  Philadelphia  for  English  currency.  It 
was  at  the  lowest  tide  of  this  bitter  Winter  that 
the  public  mind  was  raised  by  the  news  that  French 
money  and  French  ships  and  French  men  were 
coming  over  to  help.  We  have  raised  few  shafts 
of  marble  to  France  but  we  are  tardily  building 
our  appreciative  columns  now — not  in  stone,  but 
in  little  cars  for  wounded  men,  little  kits  for  the 
soldiers  of  France,  and  by  those  Americans — men 

-e-288-«- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

and  women — who  cross  the  water,  steel  instru- 
ments in  their  hands,  red  crosses  upon  their  arms, 
and  a  mighty  purpose  in  their  hearts. 

It  grew  darker  as  we  returned  to  Hallstead's 
Point,  the  Illustrator's  "  brother  "  congratulating 
us  that  we  had  evidently  missed  a  well-known  hole 
in  the  road.  We  must  have  escaped  it,  he  said, 

since  we  got  out  of  it.  W replied  that  if  we 

missed  a  hole  in  Virginia  this  was  the  only  one,  but 
"  Keep  on,  brother,"  called  our  cheery  acquaintance, 
"  you'll  never  be  lonesome  in  Virginia  for  lack  of 
ruts — or  friends."  And  that  is  the  conclusion  of 
the  whole  matter. 

Williamsburg  was  so  dimly  lighted  that  we 
might  have  taken  it  for  a  firefly  and  gone  past,  but 
a  mysterious  voice  as  welcome  as  Elijah's  ravens, 
called  out  to  go  to  the  left,  which  we  did,  passing 
down  a  broad  street  with  meadows  flowering  up 
to  the  wheel  tracks.  The  old  Colonial  Hotel  was 
at  supper  and  it  was  difficult  to  get  it  on  its  feet 
to  show  us  our  rooms.  I  sat  in  a  long  drawing  room, 
full  of  magnificent  English  Sheraton,  while  a  boy 
in  white  socks  talked  it  all  over  with  the  pro- 
prietor. 

To  our  horror  we  learned  that  there  was  a 
"  boom  "  in  Williamsburg,  that  powder  works  were 
going  up  somewhere  near  and  the  builders  and  en- 
gineers had  all  the  best  rooms,  so  that  we  could  be 

-j-289-*- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

apportioned  only  the  poorest  ones.  It  was  not  the 
poor  rooms  which  depressed  us  but  the  fact  that  a 
settlement  of  the  first  London  Company,  the  Capi- 
tol during  the  reign  of  the  first  Colonial  governors, 
and  the  home  of  a  college  established  by  William 
and  Mary  was  about  to  burst  out  into  ugly  pine 
houses. 

I  flounced  about  a  good  deal  over  it  until  our 
host,  advancing  to  our  table  to  apologise  for  the 
rooms,  assured  me  that  the  old  town  would  not 
be  affected  by  the  powder  works — beyond  what  ef- 
fect the  engineers'  board  had  upon  the  hotel.  Our 
host  was  as  pleased  as  I  over  Williamsburg  re- 
maining intact  which  was  most  unselfish  of  him 
for  we  learned  afterwards  that  his  father,  "  in 
slave  days,"  farmed  1,300  acres  of  land  about  here, 
and  one  would  think  selling  it  off  in  town  lots 
would  make  some  appeal  to  him. 

I  cannot  say  too  often  that  you  must  not  miss 
Williamsburg  no  matter  what  rooms  you  get.  I  be- 
lieve it  was  the  merriest,  wisest  stay  of  our  merry, 
wise  trip,  and  I  hope  that  every  effort  will  be  made 
to  provide  you  with  the  octogenarian  darky  who 
served  us  at  table.  "  Only  Kemble  could  draw  him, 

only  Kemble,"  murmured  W each  time  the  old 

man  approached.  His  approach  was  part  of  his 
charm.  It  was  stealthy,  it  was  personal.  He  was 
not  content  to  come  close — he  came  closer.  There 

-j-  290  -f- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

was  a  tremendous  potent  pause  before  he  delivered 
in  the  smallest  of  voices  the  array  of  viands.  He 
never  rattled  off  the  list,  the  choice  was  offered  to  us 
in  strict  order.  He  had  a  way  of  looking  all  about 
him  and  then,  very  close,  in  his  reedy  voice: 
"  Would  you  lak  a  little  Smiffield  ham?  " 

The  Smithfield  ham  was  from  the  table  of  our 
host  who  was  giving  a  party,  but  as  they  had  de- 
parted we  gratefully  ate  the  crumbs  which  fell 
from  the  rich  man's  table.  '  Would  you  lak  a 
little  pineapple  ice?"  confided  he  questioningly. 
We  were  torn  between  satisfaction  and  despair  that 
for  three  meals  we  would  have  this  strange  creature 
to  enjoy  yet  must  suffer  from  internal  laughter.  I 
suppose  if  one  could  say  "  You're  awfully  funny, 
let  me  laugh,"  one  wouldn't  care  to  laugh  at  all. 
"  He's  not  funny,  he's  not  funny,"  I  kept  repeat- 
ing to  myself.  Then  he  would  creep  up  to  me, 
look  around  the  room  and  whisper  "  Would  you  lak 
a  little  cup  of  coffee? "  and  I  would  choke  on  the 
fish  bone  of  the  fish  we  didn't  have. 

I  went  to  sleep  with  the  bell  of  Bruton  church 
chiming  a  decently  early  hour,  a  lovely  bell  into 
whose  casting  must  have  gone  the  hatful  of  silver 
which  Queen  Anne  is  said  to  have  contributed  to- 
ward its  making.  Some  time  in  the  night  the  en- 
gineers came  clumping  up  to  their  rooms.  Once 
before,  in  a  wild  mountain  town  of  Sicily,  I  had 

-j-291-*- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

slept  with  my  door  unlocked,  failing  on  that  night 
as  on  this  one  at  Williamsburg  to  have  a  key,  and 
on  both  occasions  bewildered  gentlemen  have 
"  made  to  enter."  Each  time  I  bitterly  reproached 
them  and  each  time  the  gentlemen  have  run  hur- 
riedly away,  but  in  Tidewater  Virginia  there  was 
no  cry  of  "  Scusa,  Signora,  scusa,"  as  they  hastily 
"  beat  it."  Through  all  this,  Toby  the  watchdog 
slept  peacefully,  although  both  he  and  the  Illustra- 
tor complained  of  a  bad  night,  fighting  battles  of 
Yorktown  for  beautiful  ladies. 

I  awoke  with  the  sun  in  my  eyes  and  the  fair  view 
of  the  Court  Green  spread  out  before  me.  In  the 
middle  of  it  was  the  Court  House  of  1769,  said  to 
have  been  designed  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren.  But- 
tercups daringly  offered  their  gold  to  the  honest 
jurors  within;  the  blossoms  beckoned  us  out  and 
rose  in  yellow  waves  about  Toby  who  leaped 

through  the  alluring  bath  like  a  flying  fish.    W 

made  sketches  with  our  host  obligingly  standing  in 
the  picture  for  "  scale."  It  makes  little  difference 
what  you  draw  in  Williamsburg  for  every  house  is 
historic  and  every  one  is  a  composition.  If  an  artist 
is  doing  the  old  Powder  Horn  from  which  Lord 
Dunmore  purloined  the  powder  that  blew  the  can- 
non ball  into  St.  Paul's  of  Norfolk,  he  is  fearing 
he  had  better  hasten  to  the  old  Wythe  house  where 
Washington  once  lived.  If  he  begins  on  the  Wythe 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

house  he  is  itching  to  get  at  Brut  on  church  next 
door,  and  while  he  works  upon  Bruton  he  prays 
the  creator  of  good  architecture  to  keep  the  Poor 
Debtors'  Prison  from  falling  into  dust  before  he 
gets  around  to  it.  Williamsburg  is  so  full  of  old 
things  that  one  may  neglect  to  look  at  the  monu- 
ment to  the  Confederate  dead,  the  first  I  have  ever 
seen  to  bear  an  inscription  of  modern  poetry.  It 
is  for  all  time,  this  prayer: 

te  Lord  God  of  hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget." 

Old  Bruton  church  faces  this  Green,  restored  to 
its  form  of  1715.  The  great  churches  of  Europe 
were  frequently  built  on  the  site  of  a  Greek  temple 
which  gave  place,  as  the  centuries  rolled  on,  to  a 
mosque,  and  with  the  growth  and  power  of  Chris- 
tianity to  a  place  of  worship  for  our  present  simple 
religion.  In  America  the  buildings  have  gone 
through  many  metamorphoses,  but  from  logs  to 
frame,  from  bricks  to  stone  they  have  been  from 
the  first  the  church  of  the  belief  of  our  fathers. 
These  churches  of  four  centuries  bring  to  me  a 
feeling  of  permanency  in  the  religion  itself,  a  re- 
ligion which  may  change  its  form,  its  dogma,  and 
its  method  of  expression  but  remains  as  much  a  part 
of  the  earth  as  the  site  of  the  old  and  still  older 
Houses  of  God. 

H-293-*- 


LTHE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  difference  between 
the  rich  character  of  those  Virginia  churches  estab- 
lished by  the  London  Company — and  their  succes- 
sors— and  the  severe  ones  of  the  Puritans  and  those 
corporations  whose  departure  from  England  was 
coincident  with  the  boats  sailing  to  Virginia.  To 
the  South  they  brought  the  customs  of  England, 
indeed  are  clinging  to  them  now.  In  New  Eng- 
land they  abandoned  all  hint  of  court  life  as  quickly 
as  possible.  It  may  have  been  the  influence  of  cli- 
mate for  the  settlements  of  both  localities  endured 
through  incredible  hardships.  But  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  how  the  Puritans  would  have  disported 
themselves  had  they  gone  to  the  lotus  eating  coun- 
try instead  of  a  land  with  a  diet  of  rocks. 

England  must  have  kept  a  soft  spot  in  her  heart 
for  the  Southern  Virginia  apportioned  by  James  I 
— that  bounteous  dispenser  of  land  which  was  not 
his — to  the  London  Company.  This  included  all 
the  territory  between  the  Carolinas  and  the  mouth 
of  the  Potomac,  while  the  Plymouth  Company 
were  granted  the  other  part  of  Virginia  extending 
north  as  far  as  Nova  Scotia.  Gifts  of  value  were 
made  the  church  at  Williamsburg.  Yet  it  may  be 
the  lofty  Governor's  pew,  raised  a  little  above  the 
plain  people,  with  its  fine  canopy  of  crimson  vel- 
vet which  enriches  Bruton  church.  The  word  Gov- 
ernor is  very  high  sounding  in  itself.  On  the  can- 

-e-294-J- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

opy  is  now  emblazoned  the  name  of  Spottswoode, 
as  the  present  church  was  built  under  his  adminis- 
tration. 

The  old  slave  gallery  has  been  torn  down,  but 
the  one  at  the  rear  is  still,  according  to  mandate, 
"assigned  for  the  use  of  the  College  Youth,"  to 
which  there  is  to  be  "  put  a  door  with  a  lock  and 
key,  the  sexton  to  keep  the  key."  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  to  lock  the  students  in  or  out,  but 
they  carved  their  initials  on  the  wood  of  the  pews 
in  front  of  them  with  the  vandalism  of  youth,  and, 
doubtless,  watched  the  minister  shift  the  pages  of 
his  sermon  from  one  side  to  another,  until,  oh  fear- 
ful joy!  there  were  more  on  the  finished  side  than 
on  the  stack  yet  to  be  thundered  aloud. 

Lord  Dunmore  also  sat  in  that  gallery  as  the 
revolutionary  storm  gathered  and  the  Governor's 
big  square  pew  became  an  uncomfortable  resting- 
place  for  a  man  who  was  undoubtedly  plotting 
against  the  parishioners  as  he  listened  to  the  Good 
Word.  As  a  family  who  served  its  country  well, 
our  hotel  landlord's  name  is  on  a  bronze  tablet  of 
the  pew  next  to  the  Governor's,  and  while  I  should 
appreciate  the  honour  of  occupying  one  of  these 
conspicuous  boxes,  I  should  prefer  Lord  Dun- 
more's  latter  place  among  the  gallery  gods  for  com- 
fort. These  seats  of  the  mighty  face  the  congrega- 
tion, and  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  forty  winks 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

without  rendering  myself  liable  to  a  fine  of  five 
shillings  for  "  sleeping  in  ye  Church." 

The  old  churchyard  encourages  slumber,  and 
when  I  go  on  my  last  little  excursion,  to  return  no 
more,  I  trust  it  will  be  to  some  such  quiet  country 
place.  These  great  graveyards  about  New  York 
with  all  one's  friends  passing  them  for  week-ends 
in  Westchester  County  would  not  be  conducive  to 
the  serene  spirit.  There  are  all  kinds  of  men  and 
women  in  Bruton  churchyard :  lords  and  ladies,  be- 
loved wives  and  lamented  husbands,  some  of 
George  Washington's  people,  and  on  the  monu- 
ment of  the  Semple  family  an  inscription  to 
"Mammy  Sarah.  Devoted  Servant  of  the  Fam- 
ily." So  with  this  Catholicism  perhaps  I  would  be 
let  in. 

At  the  far  end  of  Duke  of  Gloucester  Street 
stands  William  and  Mary  College,  the  second  old- 
est institution  of  learning  in  America,  from  which 
such  able  men  have  been  graduated  that  it  is  hard 
to  believe  they  were  ever  boys  like  those  of  today, 
going  about  the  grounds  with  or  without  white  flan- 
nel trousers  (you  understand  me,  of  course).  I 
viewed  them  respectfully.  "  Presidents?  "  I  asked 
myself.  If  they  had  understood  and  returned  "  No, 
good  mechanics,"  it  would  have  been  quite  as  Im- 
pressive an  answer.  We  stared  at  William  and 
Mary  College  most  thoroughly  for  we  were  feeling 

-+296-*- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

guilty  over  not  seeing  Charlottesville  where  is  sit- 
uated the  University  of  Virginia.  The  roads  were 
not  promising  for  this  trip,  and  when  one  writes  a 
book  for  motorists  I  suppose  their  interests  should 
be  considered. 

If  I  fail  in  disclosing  a  motor  tour  I  had  better 
close  the  shop  for  it  is  impossible  to  please  the 
reader  when  I  burst  into  history.  Either  I  am  never 
right  or  the  other  histories  are  always  wrong.  I 
am  often  taxed  very  sharply  for  it,  but  I  should 
think  the  fault  finders  would  be  glad  to  discover 
how  much  more  they  know  than  I  do.  The  most 
cherished  history  of  my  recollection  is  a  serious  vol- 
ume that  has  a  Confederate  General  fighting  three 
years  after  it  has  killed  him.  I  always  breathe  a 
sigh  of  relief — and  I  am  sure  the  reader  must  also 
— when  I  have  hurdled  over  the  dates  and  am  lop- 
ing easily  along  the  road  of  personal  incident. 

Even  though  I  was  happy  on  Williamsburg 
Greens  (there  are  a  number  of  them)  I  was  anxious 
to  get  back  to  luncheon  to  have  another  peep  at  the 
cautious  and  confidential  servitor  whose  years  were 
too  many  to  remember  even  if  one  were  told  them. 
Possibly  I  would  have  had  more  control  at  lunch- 
eon if  our  host  had  not  mixed  us  what  was  known 
as  a  "  sideboard  toddy."  I  can  say  nothing  of  it, 
like  the  charm  of  a  woman  it  cannot  be  analysed, 
but  I  know  that  you  get  it  at  the  sideboard,  al- 

-*-297-«- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

though  you  do  not  leave  it  there.  It  goes  into  the 
dining  room  with  you  and  makes  you  laugh  at  the 
waiter  while  you  pretend  you  are  laughing  because 
your  husband  eats  so  much.  "  Have  you  a  green 
vegetable? "  asked  the  Illustrator.  The  ebony  an- 
tique crept  close,  looked  about,  tucked  down  his 
head  and  confided  that  he  had — it  was  spaghetti. 
I  left  before  he  asked  if  I  would  "  lak  a  little  piece 
of  pie,"  although  the  cooking  was  so  excellent  that 
I  wanted  it. 

I  hunted  up  the  landlord  to  make  sure  that 
George  Washington  had  wooed  the  Widow  Custis 
in  Williamsburg.  The  hospital  now  stands  on  the 
place  known  as  the  Six  Chimney  Lot  where  he  is 
supposed  to  have  been  formally  accepted.  One 
cannot  blame  him  for  proposing  with  all  those 
chimneys  about  and  few  of  us  women  are  able  to 
hold  out  against  the  sympathy  of  a  brick  fireplace 
— not  the  kind  with  a  Japanese  fan  in  the  grate, 
but  one  with  glowing  logs  and  a  clean  swept  hearth 
to  assure  the  gentleman  that  you  are  tidy. 

I  did  not  find  the  proprietor  making  up  our  ac- 
count, as  the  hotel  very  amiably  took  care  of  itself. 
He  was  standing  at  an  old  desk  in  a  room  where 
the  young  people  had  been  dancing  the  night  be- 
fore. A  litterateur  should  call  on  the  old  desk  at 
this  point  and  ask  what  it  thought  of  the  new  going 
about  in  a  circle,  heart  to  heart,  but  I  reach  a  stage 

-J-298-*- 


BRUTOX  CHURCH.   DUKE  OF  GLOUCESTER   STREET, 
WILLIAMSBURG 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

in  writing  when  a  figure  of  speech  becomes  nauseat- 
ing. Why  say  "  she  was  like  a  soft  bird,"  when  the 
heroine  in  no  way  resembles  a  bird ;  why  insist  that 
the  sea  "  was  like  a  hungry  monster,"  when  this 
large  body  of  water  is  like  no  rapacious  beast  of 
our  acquaintance  or  imagination?  Why  should  I 
apostrophise  this  piece  of  furniture,  shouting  out 
"  Old  desk,  what  do  you  think  of  the  turkey  trot?  " 
when  it  has  never  thought  anything  and  never  will. 
Here  is  something  for  the  reader  to  think  of  in- 
stead :  granted  that  the  old  desk  ever  had  eyes  and 
had  witnessed  only  a  minuet  in  its  best  days,  who 
was  the  dancing  man  who  first  put  his  arm  about  a 
woman  and  galloped  off  with  her?  Where  did  he 
live?  WTiat  did  they  do  with  him?  Did  all  the 
respectable  old  desks  hurl  themselves  upon  him  and 
crush  out  his  life  for  this  indelicacy?  How  did 
round  dancing  become  the  fashion?  This  is  really 
something  to  answer. 

To  get  back  to  my  story  as  fast  as  the  memory  of 
the  sideboard  toddy  will  permit,  my  host  not  only 
verified  the  story  of  the  Six  Chimney  Lot,  but 
claimed  that  Williamsburg  witnessed  George 
Washington's  other  hotly  plied  suit.  I  stopped 
him.  One  can  never  believe  that  his  or  her  father 
has  ever  asked  any  woman  but  his  or  her  mother 
to  be  his  wife,  and  short  on  history  as  I  am,  I  had 
not  heard  that  the  father  of  our  country  had  loved 

-j-  299  -J- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

or  thought  of  loving  any  one  but  Mistress  Custis. 
I  was  shocked.  One-half  of  me  urged  that  I  go 
away  but  the  sideboard  toddy  half  insisted  upon 
my  remaining. 

"  Yes,"  continued  our  landlord,  rubbing  up  the 
mahogany  a  bit,  "  he  may  have  made  love. at  this 
very  desk." 

With  great  control  I  held  my  sideboard  toddy 
breath.  "  Was  it  his  desk?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  it  was  Mary  Gary's." 

Now  I  didn't  know  who  Mary  Gary  was,  but  it 
was  the  dearest  of  names  and  I  wished  to  hear  more 
of  her.  I  took  up  a  little  piece  of  chamois  and 
rubbed  away  at  my  side  of  the  desk  too,  and  a  glow 
came  to  the  surface  which,  if  I  had  not  been  so  sick 
of  metaphor,  I  would  have  said  was  "  like  a  blush." 
For  Mary  Gary  was  a  lovely  girl  when  Washing- 
ton came  visiting  to  Williamsburg,  and  she  had 
other  articles  beside  the  desk,  for  they  were  a  proud 
family  of  name  and  wealth.  They  were  so  proud 
that  Mary  Gary  didn't  think  much  of  a  Washing- 
ton named  George  offering  his  hand  in  marriage. 
He  was  a  young  man,  a  surveyor,  very  nicely  con- 
nected, still — not  a  Gary. 

So  George  went  away  leaving  Mary  alone  with 
her  desk.  But  one  day  he  came  back,  only  this  time 
he  was  not  surveying  anything,  not  even  his  chances 
at  Mistress  Gary's  hand.  He  wore  a  three  cornered 

-j-300-J- 


THE  FEMALE  NUMBER 

hat,  and  a  brave  uniform,  and  he  was  riding  at  the 
head  of  his  men — his  country's  men  and  his.  Mary 
Gary  was  standing  in  the  crowd.  She  had  not  ex- 
pected him.  She  had  not  thought  of  the  surveyor 
and  the  brilliant  young  officer  as  the  same  man. 
Possibly  she  did  not  ever  wear  her  best  gown.  And 
then  I  asked  our  host  what  she  did  when  she  saw 
him. 

There  was  only  one  thing  for  her  to  do  under  the 
circumstances.  You  may  not  agree  with  me.  You 
may  think  that  her  manner  of  showing  her  emotion 
would  have  been  more  fitted  to  women  of  the  Middle 
Ages  or  more  graceful  in  the  period,  and  costume, 
of  young  Queen  Victoria,  but  I  feel  that  there  was 
just  one  thing  for  Mary  Gary  to  have  done.  I 
feared  it  would  happen  to  me  myself  if  he  didn't 
answer  as  I  expected.  But  the  most  excellent 
Southern  gentleman  did  not  fail  me.  He  told  me 
when  she  saw  her  lost  lover  going  by  in  all  his  splen- 
dour, all  his  promise — 

"  Mary  Gary  swooned  away." 


301 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Jamestown — Then    Northward    Ho!     A    Little 

Quarrel  with  the  Illustrator  and  Our  Best 

Homage  to  a  French  Soldier 

THE  luggage  was  put  on  immediately  after  the 
noon  meal  with  the  idea  of  running  over  to  James- 
town, retracing  our  steps  and  going  on  to  Rich- 
mond— a  simpler  process  for  reaching  the  settle- 
ment than  was  employed  in  1607..  I  had  said  some- 
thing casual  about  remaining  in  Jamestown  if  we 
liked  it  to  the  young  man  in  white  socks  (another 
pair,  I  am  sure) ,  but  he  was  too  polite  to  show  how 
much  he  despised  me. 

Through  lack  of  any  advance  preparation  from 
a  guide  book  I  had  thought  Jamestown  was  still  a 
village,  dull  in  Winter,  perhaps,  but  where  people 
might  go  in  the  Summer.  The  Illustrator  said 
(after  he  had  seen  it)  he  knew  all  the  time  that 
there  were  only  several  monuments,  a  custodian, 
and  a  church  tower  to  represent  the  planting  of 
the  F.  F.  Vs.  He  said  I  ought  to  have  "  sensed  " 
it.  But  the  only  thing  I  sensed  in  advance  was 
the  possible  disadvantage  of  spending  the  Summer 

-i-302-j- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

in  any  vicinity  that  the  first  white  man  would 
choose  for  a  settlement.  Since  the  early  settlers 
had  no  compunction  about  doing  away  with  the  In- 
dians I  should  think  they  would  have  located  in 
the  villages  they  devastated.  The  Indian  lodges 
were  ever  the  healthiest  points  of  a  countryside,  and 
the  victor  could  always  bury  the  Indians  murdered 
in  their  tepees,  if  they  were  found  objectionable. 

But,  no,  it  is  hard  to  tell  white  men  anything. 
They  did  not  fear  mosquitoes,  and  they  drank  the 
salty  water  of  the  James  for  two  years  before  they 
dug  a  well,  but  they  dreaded  the  Spaniards,  and 
they  moved  further  and  further  up  the  river  to  this 
marshy  spot.  Here  they  settled  because,  among 
other  reasons,  a  natural  moat  was  found  where  a 
castle  could  be  built.  I  think  that  was  very  British. 
But  there  were  no  castles  erected,  and  after  years 
of  sickness,  and  replenishing  of  human  stock,  some 
of  the  emigrants  moved  inland  to  what  was  known 
as  the  Middle  Plantation,  and  is  now  healthy  Will- 
iamsburg  with  the  enchanting  old  negro  to  wait  on 
the  newcomer. 

The  run  of  seven  miles  has  a  sort  of  end  of  the 
road  air  which  should  have  suggested  the  discon- 
tinuance of  life  in  Jamestown.  Produce  wagons 
were  all  going  in  one  direction — to  Williamsburg — 
as  though  the  chief  care  of  the  country  was  to  keep 
the  students  of  William  and  Mary  fed,  and  there 

-J-303-*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

was  in  this  trafficless  region  a  feeling  of  antiquity 
which  I  was  putting  down  to  my  own  weight  of 
years.  But  Jamestown  is  a  very  good  place  to  go 
if  you  care  to  feel  young  by  contrast.  That  is,  if 
you  do  not  count  the  chapel  which  has  been  joined 
recently  to  the  old  church  tower. 

The  A.  P.  V.  A.  put  it  up,  which  would  sound 
like  a  Fenian  society  if  the  V.  were  out,  but  tran- 
spired to  be  mostly  ladies  who  had  formed  them- 
selves into  an  Association  for  the  Preservation^  of 
Virginia  Antiquities.  Still  the  chapel  with  its  new 
bricks  glazed  after  an  old  fashion  is  not  disturbing, 

and  W sat  himself  down  to  make  a  sketch 

under  the  impression — I  think — that  John  Smith 
had  carried  the  bricks  from  England.  A  mocking 
bird  sang  for  him,  and  a  lady  walking  through  the 
buttercups  from  one  country  house  to  another  said 
that  when  she  gets  to  heaven  she  hopes  the  streets 
will  be  paved  with  just  such  gold.  It  made  me  envy 
her  a  little,  so  many  people  are  just  as  sure  of 
heaven  as  I  am  uneasy  over  acquiring  another 
place  where  I  will  eat  in  a  noisy  cellar  and  sleep 
cold. 

There  are  two  fine  monuments  in  Jamestown. 
One  is  a  statue  of  John  Smith.  It  may  not  re- 
semble him  but  it  is  looking  as  he  ought  to  have 
looked  anyway.  It  is  a  glowing  thought  that  this 
sturdy  captain  of  the  plain  people  forged  ahead  of 

-j-304-*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

his  aristocratic  mates  by  sheer  merit.  He  is  our 
most  consistent  American  as  we  measure  a  man  in 
this  day.  Across  the  field  rises  the  obelisk  the 
United  States  has  erected  in  commemoration  of  this 
settlement.  With  the  exception  of  the  Washington 
monument  and  that  of  Bennington,  Vermont,  it  is 
more  satisfactory — to  me  at  least — than  any  in  this 
country.  The  shield  of  the  United  States  is  the 
only  form  of  decoration.  We  are  spared  allegorical 
sculpturing  around  the  base;  wounded  soldiers, 
loyal  Indians,  weeping  mothers,  and  comforting 
babies  are  withheld.  We  do  not  need  heroic  figures 
in  stone  to  exemplify  the  history  of  our  country. 
They  live  in  our  hearts,  and  they  are  living  now  in 
the  flesh.  John  Smiths  are  still  among  us,  homely 
men  of  humble  birth,  unappreciated  during  their 
lifetime,  perhaps,  as  was  the  John  Smith  at  James- 
town, but  giving  strength  to  a  nation  that  is  most 
fittingly  represented  by  a  tall  shaft  of  undecorated 
stone. 

After  a  half  hour  of  Jamestown  as  it  is,  one  can- 
not countenance  the  thought  of  a  present  existence 
in  any  other  form.  A  moving  picture  house  op- 
posite John  Smith's  statue  would  have  been  too 
dreadful  to  entertain.  This  deserted  fragment  of 
land  on  the  edge  of  the  wide  river  served  its  time 
and  its  purpose.  The  settlement  dug  its  toes  into 
the  soil  of  America  and  held  on.  The  tide  of  the 

-!-  305  -*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

James  rolled  in  with  more  and  more  boats  as  the 
century  grew,  and  the  first  Virginians,  having  se- 
cured foothold,  found  the  land  to  be  firm  beneath 
them,  and  marched  onward  and  inward. 

We  ourselves  were  about  to  march  upward — not 
heavenward,  I  lay  no  claim  to  that,  but,  after 
Jamestown,  the  nose  of  our  engine  was  to  sniff  the 
breath  of  Boreas  until  it  drew  up  before  our  apart- 
ment correctly  facing  west — or  the  policeman 
would  get  it.  If  I  had  not  seen  Jamestown  I  would 
have  felt  that  our  tour  of  inspection  (dealing  with 
the  beginning  and  the  struggle,  but,  thank  the 
powers,  not  the  end  of  American  life)  would  not 
have  been  complete.  Richmond  and  the  larger 
cities,  which  are  the  crystallised  worth  of  a  coun- 
try, lay  ahead. 

I  reseated  myself  in  the  automobile  and  spoke  to 
the  Illustrator  nearby.  He  was  sketching  busily, 
too  much  of  an  artist  to  lend  but  half  an  ear,  too 
much  of  a  mechanic  to  interpret  correctly  what  the 
ear  received.  "  It's  a  lovely  tower,  isn't  it?  "  I  said, 
paying  a  last  tribute  to  the  Jamestown  relic.  To 
which  he  answered,  "  It  uses  mighty  little  gaso- 
lene," for  the  Illustrator  meant  his  car. 

"Skoal  to  the  Northward  Skoal!"  Yet  the 
Southern  sands  on  the  way  to  Richmond  paid  us  the 
graceful  compliment  of  attempting  to  retard  our 
departure.  We  were  slewing  around  in  the  midst 

H-  306  -*-. 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

of  it  when  we  met  another  car  which  we  were  pass- 
ing without  any  great  exchange  of  confidence  until 
each  party  discovered  simultaneously  the  other's 
New  York  number.  Then  we  burst  into  speech  as 
though  we  had  never  seen  a  New  York  number  be- 
fore, telling  things  that  I  am  sure  we  would  never 
have  given  away  had  we  not  been  reduced  to  com- 
plete friendliness  by  the  Southern  examples  all 
about  us.  They  said  the  road  grew  from  better  to 
best,  as  though  bent  on  reform,  and  as  we  could  as- 
sure them  of  something  finer  than  a  good  road  the 
exchange  of  news  items  was  a  fair  one. 

They  passed  and  we  continued  northward.  Lit- 
tle tingles  of  longing  for  I  knew  not  what  were  en- 
gendered by  that  cream  background  and  blue  let- 
tering. Yet  it  saddened  me  to  realise  that  we  were 
seeing  the  last  of  the  ox  teams,  the  last  of  the  pos- 
tilions— of  the  mule  strings.  The  smoke  houses 
for  the  pigs  had  disappeared.  There  were  no  more 
sheets  tacked  down  over  what  I  learned  at  Will- 
iamsburg  had  been  little  private  stocks  of  tobacco 
plants.  The  dogwood  was  still  blooming  among 
the  old  pine  trees  like  children  at  a  grown  up  party. 
Blue  forget-me-nots — a  very  pretty  "  pour  prendre 
conge "  —made  their  appeal  unnecessarily,  and 
young  holly  with  its  prickles  all  soft  green  re- 
minded us  that  the  South  would  again  be  with  us 
at  the  snowy  holiday  time. 

-J-307-J- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

Promptly  at  Sistersville  the  road,  under  their 
gentle  influence,  mended  its  way — as  they  would 
say  in  vaudeville  it  was  a  very  good  Sister  Act.  We 
moved  on  so  quickly  to  Seven  Pines  that  we  might 
not  have  recognised  the  great  battleground  had  not 
the  tiny  hamlet  of  that  name  actually  possessed 
seven  pines  which  were  too  magnificent  to  pass  un- 
noticed. How  seldom  do  places  of  the  present  day 
live  up  to  their  original  nomenclature.  There  are 
no  Indians  in  Indianapolis,  no  Minnies  in  Minne- 
apolis and  no  sisters  in  Sistersville  possibly.  But 
here  the  seven  pines  are  as  sentinels  before  the  great 
National  Cemetery.  The  battlegrounds  are  at  the 
left  of  the  road  as  we  go  toward  Richmond,  but  one 
need  not  dig  for  relics  as  there  is  a  small  exhibit  by 
the  town  pump,  presided  over  by  no  one,  contain- 
ing everything  that  the  souvenir  hunter  may 
desire. 

Only  the  honest  man  may  enter  this  shop.  A 
small  sign  above  the  coin  box  is  displayed  on  which 
the  visitor  is  told  that  he  must  put  in  five  or  ten 
cents  or  he  can't  look  at  the  relics.  I  don't  know 
how  he  is  to  be  prevented  since  there  is  no  caretaker 
about,  unless  he  is  stricken  by  blindness  for  his  diso- 
bedience. I  was  fishing  for  five  cents,  thinking  I 
would  look  a  nickel's  worth,  and  if  I  liked  it  put  in 
another  five  cents  and  look  some  more,  when  my 
eyes  fell  upon  a  set  of  false  teeth.  So  I  dropped  in 

-j-308-*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

a  penny  as  they  were  not  very  good  false  teeth  and 
beat  a  retreat. 

It  is  characteristic  of  life  that  we  had  our  first 
puncture  while  sailing  along  on  a  perfect  road  at  the 
edge  of  Richmond.  We  went  into  a  small  grocery 
store  to  telephone  about  the  spring — which  was 
awaiting  us  by  the  way.  This  arrival  of  the  spring 
was  not  "  by  the  way  to"  W or  the  chauf- 
feur, but  very  much  so  to  me  at  the  time,  for  there 
was  a  condition  of  affairs  in  the  grocery  store  that 
I  had  met  with  more  than  once  among  the  poor 
whites  in  the  Old  Dominion.  The  condition  has 
greatly  puzzled  me.  The  proprietress  divided  her 
attention  between  customers  and  her  baby  whom 
she  "  minded  "  with  an  industry  and  a  sweetness 
that  is  the  invariable  attribute  of  the  Southern 
mother. 

Her  fine  skin  shone  with  soap,  her  lovely  hair, 
too  white  for  one  so  young,  was  neatly  dressed,  her 
children  were  equally  decent.  Yet  the  chaos  of  her 
surroundings  was  unbelievable.  Now  a  New  Eng- 
land woman  would  not  be  able  to  endure  the  dust  of 
her  surroundings,  or  if  she  endured  it  she  herself 
would  be  a  slattern.  She  is  more  apt  to  err  in  the 
other  direction  and  sacrifice  her  own  appearance  to 
keep  her  house  clean. 

I  know  that  the  women  from  the  upper  strata 
of  the  Southern  States  are  magnificent  house- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

keepers,  but  I  write  this  down  because  I  have  hon- 
est days.  And  I  have  felt  so  nervous  since  I  have 
written  it  that  I  have  looked  in  the  ice  chest  twice 
and  am  none  too  satisfied  with  my  own  house- 
keeping. 

The  entrance  to  the  city  of  Richmond  is  like  the 
entree  to  its  fashionable  life — heights  to  climb,  then 
a  wide  extending  welcome.  Unfortunately  the  Jef- 
ferson Hotel  remains  conservative  no  matter  what 
letters  of  introduction  you  may  carry.  You  may 
have  a  crest  on  every  piece  of  silver  and  a  First 
Family  on  your  right  and  on  your  left,  but  if  you 
have  a  dog  on  a  leash  you  will  have  to  move  on. 
The  Illustrator  advised  my  trying  to  "  breeze 
through,"  but  I  could  breeze  no  further  than  our 
names  on  the  register.  It  was  uncomfortable  as 
his  shirts  had  been  sent  there.  Even  as  they  were 
vigorously  erasing  our  infamous  appellations  I  was 
asking  timidly  for  a  parcel. 

It  was  handed  to  me!  The  strong  string  which 
I  had  advised  by  night  letter  had  been  employed, 
but  the  box,  owing  to  the  brutality  of  the  Parcel 
Post,  had  almost  entirely  disappeared.  Sleeves  and 
shirt  tails  floated  in  the  wind  that  my  rapid  exit 
created,  and  the  patterns  seemed  gaudier  and  nois- 
ier than  fancy  could  conceive.  I  felt  as  though  I 
were  carrying  a  brass  band  in  my  arms  while  it 
played  the  "  Washington  Post." 

-J-310-J- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

"  Here  is  your  laundry,"  I  said  to  W throw- 
ing it  at  him.  "  If  these  shirts  had  come  by  my 
express  company  I  wouldn't  have  been  so  humili- 
ated. And  here  is  your  dog."  I  always  called  Toby 
his  dog  when  things  went  wrong. 

The  Illustrator  was  perfectly  undisturbed  as  he 
found  all  the  shirts  there,  liking  their  designs,  and 
asked  where  were  the  letters.  I  had  forgotten  to 
ask  for  the  letters.  I  was  inclined  to  reply  that 
there  weren't  any,  but  bethought  me  to  advise  him 
to  "  breeze  through  "  himself  and  see  how  he  liked 
it.  He  did  this,  the  lofty  air  with  which  he  must 
have  approached  the  desk  still  sticking  to  him  upon 
his  reappearance  like  a  coat  of  shellac.  He  said 
they  were  very  courteous  to  him,  and  at  this  I 
roared  back  if  they  were  so  courteous  he  could  re- 
turn to  the  desk  once  more  to  ask  for  the  slippers 
which  I  had  wired  to  have  forwarded  from  Peters- 
burg. Then  all  the  courage  went  out  of  his  eyes. 
He  said  it  was  an  imposition  to  the  hotel.  He  said 
he  never  liked  the  slippers  anyway. 

The  chauffeur  finally  went  after  them.  I  haven't 
said  very  much  about  the  chauffeur  of  late  as  he 
was  a  young  man  and  I  have  been  dealing  chiefly 
with  antiquities.  But  we  had  found  as  time  went 
on  that  there  was  an  advantage  in  possessing  a 
driver  who  was  more  emotional  than  mechanical. 
If  he  had  not  recognised  the  wild  flowers,  the  birds, 

H-311H- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

the  people,  and  the  weather  signs  he  would  have 
been  unconscious  of  the  emotional  storm  which 
threatened  to  dampen  the  spirits  of  his  employers. 
With  maddening  sweetness  he  went  for  the  slip- 
pers, remaining  away  so  long  that  we  both  had  time 
to  regret  our  bad  manners.  As  often  before,  I  de- 
plored the  free  airing  we  give  our  grievances 
in  the  presence  of  those  who  are  serving  us,  while 
they  keep  their  affairs  from  us  like  a  sealed 
book. 

He  returned  with  the  slippers  and  a  great  deal  of 
information  about  the  Jefferson  Hotel  gleaned  in 
his  cheery  way  from  the  clerk  who  was  erasing  our 
names.  The  hostelry  can  afford  to  be  independent 
for  it  is  endowed,  a  sum  settled  no  doubt  by  a  dog 
hater  or  at  least  by  one  who  felt  that  dogs  and 
women  should  be  "  in  the  home."  But  this  unusual 
inn  had  rather  a  wise  objection  to  canines.  It  was 
not  that  they  greased  the  carpet  with  their  food,  but 
that  they  frightened  the  servants,  and  prevented 
the  strict  order  of  their  duties.  I  know  if  I  were  a 
chambermaid  entering  a  room  with  my  pass  key 
and  hearing  ever  so  small  a  dog  growling  under 
the  bed,  I  should  cease  to  be  a  chambermaid  in- 
stanter. 

The  maids  at  "  Murphy's  "  are  brave,  however, 
and  as  the  rooms  were  good,  the  embarrassing  shirts 
still  clean ;  as  there  were  three  checks  in  two  letters, 

-j-312-*- 


LEE'S  HEADQUARTERS— SPOTTSYLVANIA  COURT  HOUSE 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

and  the  spring  had  come  we  found  Richmond  as 
absorbing  as  it  had  always  been.  We  were  to  put 
it  to  a  new  test.  We  were  to  see  it  this  time  without 
a  circle  of  soft-voiced  friends  surrounding  us.  We 
could  not  see  them  and  the  monuments.  Like  all 
citizens  they  believe  in  but  do  not  visit  their  show 
places — leaving  that  to  the  trippers.  Some  day  I 
am  going  to  take  a  sight-seeing  wagon  in  New 
York  and  find  out  Who  Is  Who  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
also  the  history  of  the  statue  I  heard  a  barker  call 
"  Jane  dark  "  who  rides  so  beautiful  a  horse  on 
Riverside  Drive. 

Possibly  it  was  the  arrival  of  both  of  the  springs, 
vernal  and  steel,  that  rendered  the  city  as  friendly 
without  acquaintances  as  with  them,  but  we  found 
ourselves  well  employed  and  unlonesome.  I  am  not 
so  sure  that  a  Northern  city  can  so  extend  intan- 
gible rays  of  hospitality  to  a  stranger.  With  a  con- 
trol that  was  mighty  the  Illustrator  kept  away  from 
a  certain  famous  club  in  a  wide  Colonial  mansion, 
and  it  was  very  comfortable  for  me  to  know  when 
he  went  out  that  he  would  undoubtedly  return.  I 
limited  myself  to  walking  past  a  fine  old  house 
where  my  friends  were  sitting  on  the  front  steps 
after  the  manner  of  the  South  and  the  West.  A 
mellow  voice  reached  me,  the  owner  of  it  talking 
away  airily  as  I  had  first  heard  him  from  a  steamer 
chair  next  to  mine  a  long  time  ago.  I  remember 

r-i-  313  -J-. 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

he  was  telling  some  one  of  his  mother  taking  the  en- 
tire family  of  children  to  London,  and  of  the  atten- 
tion they  commanded  in  Hyde  Park  as  they  walked 
with  their  old  coloured  mammy.  He  was  a  big 
enough  boy  to  recall  but  not  to  understand  the 
severe  expression  of  the  Londoners  when  the  old 
black  nurse,  upon  interrogation  as  to  her  charges, 
would  admit  proudly :  "  Dey  am  Miss  Ellen's 
chil'ren." 

W came  back  before  midnight  having  spent 

his  time  with  the  owner  of  the  garage,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  aristocratic  club  and  who  had,  like 
many  of  the  English,  gone  into  trade  and  lost  noth- 
ing by  it.  A  late  moon  hung  over  the  city,  outlin- 
ing its  soft  hills  which  rise  from  the  James  River. 
The  many  tall  buildings  now  render  these  heights 
less  consequential,  but  Rome  on  her  seven  hills 
never  held  out  a  sturdier  defence  than  did  this  be- 
sieged city  during  the  Civil  War.  It  was  evacuated 
finally,  but,  as  we  all  know,  never  taken  by  assault. 

The  history  of  the  earliest  effort  to  reach  Rich- 
mond, which  resulted  in  the  first  encounter  at  Bull 
Run,  is  worth  the  reading  in  this  hour  of  our  pres- 
ent parlous  times.  Here  Northern  volunteers 
fought  bravely,  but  they  were  not  sufficiently  sea- 
soned to  hold  out  against  rumours  of  the  augmented 
army  of  their  foe.  The  encounter  served,  for  to 
quote  directly  from  my  S.  H.  of  the  U.  S.:  "  Both 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

sides  realised  the  need  of  long  and  patient  drill  in 
order  to  make  soldiers  out  of  the  volunteers." 

It  served  also  to  make  a  romantic  figure  out  of 
Thomas  J.  Jackson.  At  a  moment  of  the  Southern 
troops'  uncertainty  General  Bee — another  Confed- 
erate— pointed  to  Jackson's  brigade  and  ex- 
claimed :  "  Look  at  Jackson !  There  he  stands  like 
a  stone  wall."  The  sobriquet  remained,  although 
Jackson  did  not  remain  a  stone  wall  many  minutes 
after  the  compliment,  as  McDowell  drove  him,  for 
a  time  at  least,  from  his  position.  I  was  glad  to 
find  out  who  coined  the  metaphor,  and  I  think  it 
was  very  heroic  of  General  Bee  when  he  could 
probably  have  started  the  same  rumour  about 
himself,  becoming  an  idolised  Stonewall  Bee.  I 
suppose  he  was  called  the  Busy  Bee — and 
hated  it. 

We  did  not  bound  away  on  our  new  spring  until 
early  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  and  then  to  take 
only  preliminary  spins  to  do  some  sight-seeing  that 
was  near  our  hearts.  The  delay  was  a  good  deal 
like  the  old  days  in  Europe,  for  the  baggage  was 
"  descended,"  the  bill  paid,  the  servants  tipped,  and 
Toby  and  I  wandered  about  keeking  in  (as  he  says, 
being  a  Scotch  dog)  at  the  garage  every  now  and 
then  to  see  how  they  were  getting  on.  In  the  old 
days  we  would  hand  over  the  unruly  car  to  a 
mechanic,  then  run  freely  about,  for  there  is  a  pe- 

-*•  315  -H 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

riod  of  complete  detachment  between  the  paying  of 
a  bill  and  the  quitting  of  a  town, 

In  Richmond  we  walked  in  the  State  House 
grounds,  not  asking  to  enter  the  Capitol,  as  we 
feared  another  rebuff  from  this  second  endowed  in- 
stitution. The  outside  is  good  enough  for  any  one. 
The  buildings  were  after  the  style  of  the  Maison 
Carree  at  Nimes.  I  write  this  out  because  Bae- 
deker says  it  is  so.  From  my  recollection  of  the 
Roman  temple,  the  Capitol  at  Richmond,  sitting  on 
its  little  hill  of  Indian  name,  is  much  more  lovely. 
Richmond  is  on  the  site  of  Chief  Powhatan's  home. 
And  while  I  don't  wish  to  "  repeat,"  you  may  re- 
member what  I  said  in  the  last  chapter  about  the 
advisability  of  killing  off  the  Indians  and  settling 
on  their  wisely  chosen  ground. 

When  we  were  in  the  car  we  drove  first  to  St. 
John's  church,  where  Patrick  Henry  asked  to  be 
given  liberty  or  death.  It  should  have  been  a  seri- 
ous mission  but  it  was  not.  It  was  very  relieving 
to  run  up  and  down  the  wrong  hills  without  fear  of 
"  sagging."  It  was  very  jolly  to  stop  bystanders 
— granted  you  can  stop  anything  that  is  standing 
— to  ask  of  the  church,  for  the  bystanders  them- 
selves were  in  a  holiday  mood.  Once  as  a  street  car 
whizzed  by  I  thought  I  saw  a  costume  stranger 
than  anything  we  are  wearing  in  this  day,  which  is 
saying  a  great  deal ;  a  something  in  brilliant  green 

-H-316-?- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

brocade  with  a  pointed  bodice  and  a  hat  of  pearl. 
But  the  chauffeur  said  he  had  noticed  nothing  re- 
markable, and  if  the  chauffeur  while  motoring 
through  traffic,  over  cobble  stones,  and  among  nets 
of  trolleys  did  not  notice  the  green  dress  it  evi- 
dently wasn't  there. 

I  dismissed  the  matter  when  we  arrived  at  the 
old  white  frame  church  and  passed  through  the 
graveyard  to  hunt  up  the  custodian.  "  To  hunt  up 
the  custodian  "  is  the  most  astounding  phrase  in 
this  book.  If  I  had  written,  "  to  run  from  him,"  it 
need  not  call  for  comment,  but  for  us  to  seek  one 
out  deliberately,  to  compliment  him  into  activity,  to 
beg  him  to  accompany  us  into  the  church  was  a 
crazy  eventuality  of  this  crazy  day. 

He  had  just  eaten  his  dinner.  This  was  unfortu- 
nate. It  seems  when  you  just  eat  your  dinner  it  is 
very  hard  to  go  into  the  church  and  deliver  Patrick 
Henry's  speech.  He  said  he  always  prepared  for 
the  speech  when  he  orated  before  conventions — he 
had  an  egg  in  the  morning.  I  sympathised  with 
him.  I  said  *!  was  a  very  famous  actress  and  I 
never  dined  before  playing — I  spent  the  day  in 
prayer  and  fasting.  He  did  not  ask  me  who  I  was, 
and  I  was  glad  of  that  as  I  should  have  had  to 
become  Miss  Julia  Marlowe  or  Miss  Maude 
Adams,  which  would  have  been  hard  on  them.  He 
went  on  about  himself — like  a  true  artist. 

'-*-  317  -*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

He  said  the  speech  was  four  feet  long,  ten  inches 
wide — in  pencil  but  small  writing.  We  asked  him 
if  he  had  committed  it  and  he  withered  us.  It 
seems  an  oration  necessitating  both  hands  free  for 
gestures  (he  was  of  Italian  extraction)  was  always 
learned  by  heart.  I  said  I  learned  all  my  speeches 
too — but  he  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  me.  The 
Illustrator,  wishing  to  get  into  it  also,  now  said 
something  about  the  lecture  he  gave  at  Hunting- 
ton,  Long  Island,  last  Winter,  on  France  in  war 
time.  He  was  trying  to  urge  the  guide  to  recite, 
not  through  the  employment  of  my  sympathetic 
tactics,  but  by  opposition.  He  said  he  had  been 
obliged  on  that  rare  occasion  in  Huntington  to  eat 
a  large  dinner  beforehand  or  offend  the  hostess. 
They  all  ate  so  much  in  fact  that  they  were  very 
late  for  the  lecture,  yet  he  got  through  all  right — 
not  to  say  very  well  indeed. 

His  entering  the  arena  drew  the  custodian's  at- 
tention. At  least  he  looked  at  him  and  then  re- 
marked to  me  that  it  was  too  long  a  recitation, 
dinner  or  no  dinner,  to  be  expended  on  just  one  per- 
son. I  have  never  referred  to  this  before,  and  I 
presume  the  Illustrator  still  thinks  he  was  the  one. 
Indissolubly,  however,  we  went  into  the  church,  the 
endinnered  one  going  with  us,  telling  of  the  men 
who  had  shed  tears  over  his  speech — and  women, 
too,  when  they  were  allowed  to  come. 

-f-318-t- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

"  I  shed  tears  when  I  hear  good  speeches,"  I 

hurried  in,  conscious  of  our  opportunity.    W 

admitted  that  he  cried  like  a  baby.  It  was  too 
much  for  the  dear  old  orator.  "  Get  into  Patrick 
Henry's  pew,"  he  said  briefly.  We  got.  "  Sit 
down."  We  sat.  "  I'll  give  you  the  end  of  it." 

There  was  no  lack  of  tears  as  he  generously 
plunged  in.  I  believe  he  was  gratified.  We  did 
the  best  we  could  under  the  circumstances,  and  I 
am  sure  the  intelligent  readers  of  books  from  such 
redoubtable  houses  as  our  publishers'  will  appreci- 
ate that  the  situation  was  a  delicate  one.  You  see, 
if  by  any  chance  this  should  fall  into  his  hands,  I 
want  him  to  know  how  kind  I  thought  him  to  give 
us  of  his  best.  In  a  great  peroration  of  elocution- 
ary art  he  licked  into  the  end  of  it : 

"  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take,  but 
as  for  me  give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death.  I 
shouldn't  a'et  my  dinner." 

The  three  of  us  went  out  to  sit  upon  the  steps  of 
the  church,  all  a  little  exhausted,  and  after  he  got 
his  breath  he  talked  of  Italy's  present  war.  He 
was  disinterested  in  it  for  he  had  come  over  when 
a  little  boy,  and  the  Civil  War  was  his,  and  will 
always  be  the  only  one  to  him.  His  mind  harked 
back  to  the  siege  of  Richmond.  He  told  us 
some  incidents  of  the  battle  of  Seven  Pines  which 
we  had  passed  the  day  before — some  horrors  that 

-j-319-*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

I  would  rather  not  have  known,  only  it  is  more 
thrilling  to  hear  these  stories  from  the  lips  of  an 
old  man  than  to  read  the  most  graphic  war  litera- 
ture. And  it  is  my  admired  Galsworthy  who  says 
we  must  keep  with  us  always  the  consciousness  of 
the  misery  of  others. 

It  reads  to  me  as  though  it  had  been  a  wasted 
battle,  for  the  Confederates  were  forced  back  to 
their  original  positions  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and 
it  is  hard  for  a  woman  to  believe  that  there  is  prog- 
ress in  the  grim  depletion  of  troops.  On  the  first 
day  of  June  the  little  Italian  had  gone  out  with 
two  older  boys  to  seek  such  relics  as  were  to  be 
seen  nowadays  by  honest  men  for  "  five  or  ten 
cents  "  at  the  curio  shop. 

The  soldiers  were  piled  up  thick,  he  said,  but  he 
didn't  appreciate  they  were  dead,  just  sleeping, 
and  in  no  need  of  the  buttons  which  he  cut  from 
off  the  uniforms.  Wounded  men  were  everywhere, 
too,  and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  Red  Cross — 
everything  was  a  mixup.  They  were  leaning 
against  trees  crying  "  Water,  water,"  for  a  wounded 
man  gets  mighty  thirsty.  Only  nobody  gave  them 
any  water.  Sometimes  they  would  fall  down  "  ker- 
plunk "  and  not  get  up  again.  Union  soldiers  were 
raiding  around  for  food,  and  the  women  in  the 
houses  outside  the  Confederate  lines  would  throw 
them  out  the  keys  from  the  upper  windows,  too 

-j-320-J- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

scared  to  go  down.  And  then  the  Yanks  would 
get  their  fill. 

"  Did  the  men  of  the  North  or  South  ever  hurt 
women? "  I  asked. 

"  Never,"  said  the  old  custodian.  "  That  ain't 
war.  That  ain't  real  war.  They  don't  need  to  do 
that  to  fight." 

The  boy  ran  across  some  Rebs  finally  who  told 
him  to  "  git,"  and  he  ran  away  but  he  never  saw 
his  two  older  companions  again.  "  Nabbed  'em,  I 
guess,"  said  our  old  friend.  "  In  those  days  if  they 
caught  a  fellow  it  was  *  hold  up  this  gun,'  and  if 
the  boy's  arm  didn't  waver  holding  out  the  heavy 
musket  he  went  into  the  army.  He  was  old 
enough  to  fight." 

Pleased  with  our  rapt  attention  to  his  story,  he 
started  to  declaim  an  epitaph  from  one  of  the  old 
grave  stones,  but  we  checked  him.  He  did  not 
know  why.  He  did  not  know  that  in  the  oration  of 
his  own  making,  told  us  as  we  sat  upon  the  steps, 
he  had  reached  his  climax. 

While  recrossing  the  city  on  our  second  mission, 
my  strange  discovery  on  a  street  car  was  admitted 
by  my  two  companions  to  have  been  something 
more  than  a  vision.  They  worked  this  out  by  find- 
ing a  phenomenon  even  more  remarkable  coming 
out  of  a  saloon  and  wiping  its  mouth.  It  had 
pushed  up  a  tin  face  mask  to  do  this  which  I  have 

-a- 321-*- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

no  doubt  stood  for  a  visor.  It  was  a  knight  in  ar- 
mour getting  a  beer.  At  the  corner  was  an  open 
air  soda  fountain,  and  here  two  Greek  girls  with 
Caius  Brutus  and  Cassius  were  having  a  chocolate 
sundae.  I  am  sure  one  of  them  was  Cassius  for  he 
had  a  lean  and  hungry  look  and  was  eating  a  sand- 
wich. The  citizens  dressed  like  ourselves  were  not 
paying  the  smallest  attention  to  them,  perhaps  for 
the  reason  that  all  those  soberly  clad  were  escorting 
one  or  more  creatures  fantastically  equipped,  with 
eyes  only  for  their  charges. 

The  madness  of  Richmond  continued  in  the  resi- 
dence portion.  Along  quiet  Grace  Street  cavaliers 
in  Elizabethan  capes  were  fuming  with  ladies  from 
Verona  for  keeping  them  waiting.  The  ghost  of 
Hamlet's  father  driving  an  automobile  scorched 
ahead  of  King  Lear  in  a  low  racer.  On  Monument 
Street,  instead  of  closely  inspecting  the  magnificent 
pieces  of  sculptured  art,  we  tried  to  assuage  the 
grief  of  an  almost  nude  fairy  who  had  lost  her  way. 
A  householder  came  down  her  steps  and  offered  to 
take  the  fairy  along  with  her  just  as  soon  as  she 
could  catch  "  that  Falstaff  " — and  spank  him  for 
going  off  on  his  velocipede.  The  miniature  Fal- 
staff pedalled  around  the  corner  at  this  moment, 
his  cushioned  stomach  firmly  wedged  in  between  the 
handle  bars.  It  necessitated  a  nurse  maid  to  pry 
him  out,  which  delay  gave  us  the  opportunity 


1* 


THE  DESERTED  MILL  ON  OCCOQUAN  CREEK,  VIRGINIA 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

of   asking   the   lady   what    in   time   it   was    all 
about. 

"  Time? "  she  repeated  briskly,  "  Shakespeare's 
time.  We  are  having  our  pageant  today.  Every- 
body is  in  it — high  and  low.  The  whole  town  is 
looney — just  perfectly  looney."  She  turned  to 
her  young  hopeful — "  Brother,  get  into  that  ma- 
chine and  don't  keep  twitching  at  your  stomach — 
it  will  fall  off." 

We  followed  them  up  the  street  as  far  as  the 
new  boulevard,  passing  the  monuments  to  Lee,  J. 
E,  B.  Stuart,  and  Jefferson  Davis,  whose  time,  like 
that  of  Shakespeare's  is  not  forgotten  in  Richmond. 
I  think  that  the  prayer  of  Rudyard  Kipling  needs 
no  engraving  on  stone  in  Virginia  to  keep  its  great 
men  in  mind.  The  answer  to  our  quest,  which  was 
sending  us  to  the  boulevard,  would  prove  the  senti- 
ment that  present-day  Virginia  entertained  toward 
present-day  heroes. 

There  stands  on  this  boulevard  a  great  grey 
building  of  stone,  known  by  the  people  as  Battle 
Abbey,  which  is  to  serve  as  a  museum  and  a 
memorial  to  the  Confederacy.  It  has  been  nobly 
conceived  and  ably  executed.  It  rises  among  cul- 
tivated gardens  inviting  to  the  public.  It  is  fin- 
ished. Yet  the  great  bronze  doors  are  closed,  and 
an  old  Confederate  soldier  bars  the  entrance  with 
more  of  dignity  than  of  strength. 

•H-  323  -e- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

We  told  our  story  and  made  our  plea  for  en- 
trance. We  said  that  we  knew  the  young  French 
painter,  Charles  Hoffbauer,  who  was  working  upon 
the  mural  decorations  when  the  war  broke  out.  I 
had  been  one  of  the  guests  at  his  dinner  the  night 
before  he  sailed  on  the  Sanf  Anna — almost  two 
years  ago.  He  was  very  jubilant  then.  He  had 
dropped  his  work  in  Richmond  at  the  first  call, 
"  but  he  would  soon  return."  By  a  strange  chance 

W met  him  at  the  Front  a  year  after  that — one 

year  ago.  He  no  longer  said  that  he  would  soon 
return.  "  If  I  live  to  return,"  was  then  his  preface 
to  all  his  future  plans. 

The  veteran  told  us  that  the  Lieutenant  Gov- 
ernor had  ordered  the  doors  closed  to  the  public 
fearing  they  might  not  understand  the  rough  car- 
toons upon  the  wall,  or  recognise  the  value  of  the 
little  sketches  of  the  Virginia  countryside  which 
the  young  Frenchman  had  made  to  help  him  in  his 
background.  So  the  doors  were  closed  until 

"  Until "  is  not  a  momentous  word  in  ordinary 
usage,  but  it  caused  a  singing  in  our  hearts.  It 
was  a  painter  in  Paris  who  had  wondered  if  the 
completion  of  a  great  building  would  really  await 
the  return  of  the  mural  decorator — if  the  builders 
would  not  be  forced  to  secure  another  artist.  This 
had  aroused  the  Illustrator's  one  half  of  Southern 
blood.  "  It  wouldn't  be  Virginia,"  he  repeated  to 

H-324-e- 


JAMESTOWN— THEN  NORTHWARD  HO! 

me  as  we  were  seeking  the  memorial  on  the  day 
of  pageantry  in  Richmond.  "  The  Virginians  have 
sentiment,  and  if  they  do  not  applaud  the  abnega- 
tion of  a  man  who  left  his  work  for  his  country 
then — then  I'm  a  German." 

The  old  grey-coated  soldier  did  not  complete  his 
phrase.  He  swung  open  the  door  that  we  might 
pass  through.  The  rooms  stand  as  on  the  day  Hoff- 
bauer  left  them.  Daubs  of  colour  schemes,  rough 
drafts  held  by  thumb  tacks  to  the  wall,  and  a  huge 
military  decoration  almost  completed,  which  ought 
to  have  satisfied  the  multitude  that  the  soldier — 
now  reserved  by  his  government  as  an  official  war 
painter — knew  his  job  whether  fighting  battles  or 
recording  them.  When  the  veteran  learned  that  we 
hoped  to  see  him  over  there  this  year  and  that  we 
would  tell  him  of  our  pilgrimage  he  took  fum- 
blingly  from  the  wall  a  piece  of  cardboard  to  carry 
to  him.  It  is  large  and  unwieldy  but  it  is  going  to 
France  just  the  same.  The  emotions  of  a  Southern 
state  go  with  it,  for  on  the  cardboard  is  this  legend : 

The  interior  of  this  building 
will  be  completed  when  the 
French  Artist,  who  was  called 
to  his  colours,  returns  from 
Europe  to  finish  his  work  of 
painting  the  military  panels. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Listen  to  This:  a  Day's  Perfect  Motoring,  but 

the  Day  After  That— Oh,  My  Word,  What 

a  Road!    Washington  for  the  Journey's 

End  and  the  Great  Discovery 

WE  drove  from  Richmond  to  Fredericksburg  in 
the  late  afternoon  over  a  road  so  perfect  that  I  can 
remember  nothing  about  it.  That  is  the  penalty  of 
unflawed  going:  the  mind  gets  smoothed  out  like 
the  way  and  as  blank  as  a  piece  of  paper.  Toby 
leaned  out  on  his  elbow  as  does  an  engineer  from 
his  cab.  The  wind  blew  through  his  young  white 
hairs.  "  This  is  the  life,"  he  said. 

By  continuing  straight  on  to  Fredericksburg  we 
were  missing  Chancellorsville,  the  Wilderness,  Bull 
Run  and  many  of  the  great  battlefields  of  the  Civil 
War.  And  I  was  glad  to  do  this.  I  was  feeling 
the  weight  of  the  dead.  We  are  all  conscious  of 
this  burden  today,  but  I  was  losing  my  balance  over 
these  chronicled  losses  in  our  books  of  reference. 
I  was  too  far  on  the  other  side.  As  we  left  Rich- 
mond we  passed  the  spot  where  that  splendid  cav- 
alry man,  "  Jeb  "  Stuart,  was  killed.  I  had  fol- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

lowed  him  all  through  our  trip.  He  had  beaten 
his  horse  on  from  Carlisle,  you  will  remember,  when 
we  were  at  Gettysburg,  and  I  personally  felt  his 
loss.  By  holding  to  the  main  road  at  Spottsyl- 
vania  Court  House  we  would  miss  the  woods  where 
Stonewall  Jackson  was  accidentally  shot  by  his  own 
sentinels  as  he  rode  along  the  rear  of  his  enemy's 
lines  in  the  evening.  ;<  We  have  shot  General  Jack- 
son," ran  an  awed  whisper  as  he  was  carried  back 
to  the  hospital  where  he  died.  I  did  not  want  to 
see  that  place. 

When  we  arrived  at  Spottsylvania  it  was  sug- 
gested by  the  old  inn  keeper  that  he  accompany 
us  to  the  "  Bloody  Angle  "  to  tell  us  of  the  dread- 
ful slaughter,  but  I  was  so  distressed  that  the  Illus- 
trator rescued  me.  We  had  come  upon  the  old 
gentleman  very  agreeably.  I  was  going  around  to 
the  side  door  of  his  beautiful  old  hotel  for  I  knew 
it  had  a  history,  and  there  is  more  history  at  the 
side  door  than  the  front — like  the  inside  of  people's 
lives.  The  old  gentleman  was  inviting  a  solitary 
chick  into  the  Summer  kitchen  for  its  evening  meal. 
Now  I  come  to  think  of  it  he  was  the  third  or  fourth 
nice  person  I  met  who  was  looking  after  poultry — 
if  poultry  can  be  a  single  chick. 

He  admitted  that  it  had  been  headquarters, 
"  his  "  headquarters  while  he  had  planned  the  bat- 
tles of  this  vicinity ;  he  had  slept  in  one  of  the  great 

-h  327  -*- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

rooms  above.  I  knew  that  he  meant  Lee,  of  course. 
The  old  gentleman  wasn't  running  the  hotel  then. 
He  was  only  sixteen  and  he  was  carrying  a  musket 
at  the  Bloody  Angle.  He  had  stayed  with  his 
mother  for  a  while  but  he  couldn't  endure  it.  They 
lived  in  the  country  that  Sheridan  raided,  and  af- 
ter he  swept  past  them  the  boy  went  into  the  army. 

'  When  we  heard  the  Yanks  were  across  coun- 
try," he  told  me  as  he  gently  mixed  meal  for  the 
little  chick,  "  I  took  the  mules  and  my  mare  to  the 
swamp.  The  raiders  come  along  mighty  close  to 
us  and  I  thought  we  were  lost.  Mules  are  inquisi- 
tive creatures  and  I  was  scared  they'd  crackle  the 
underbrush  trying  to  see  who  was  going  by,  but 
they  never  moved  a  muscle  till  the  troop  was  out  of 
ear  shot — they  was  Southern  mules.  I  tethered  'em 
and  went  back  to  the  house.  My  poor  mother — 
they  had  been  there.  Hurt  her?  Lord,  no,  ma'am, 
just  broke  up  housekeeping.  Nobody  attacked 
women  in  those  days. 

"  I'd  had  a  feeling  the  night  before  that  we  were 
in  for  it,  so  I  had  taken  the  bacon  and  the  ham  and 
the  flour  upstairs  to  the  garret.  There  was  a  big 
space  between  the  floor  and  the  ceiling  of  the  room 
below  so  I  got  every  mite  of  it  hid  away.  The 
Yanks  walked  all  over  that  food  and  never  smelled 
it.  My  mother  said  if  she  hadn't  been  so  upset  over 
her  broken  dishes  she'd  'a'  laughed  right  out." 

•-»-  328  -*- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

I  felt  it  was  time  to  say  something  and  I  mut- 
tered feebly  about  the  demands  of  war.  We  had 
passed  through  the  wide  hall  to  sit  on  the  old  front 
porch  with  the  bullet  holes  in  the  brick  all  around 
us.  The  old  man  let  himself  down  heavily  on  a 
bench,  and  shook  his  head.  "  That  ain't  war, 
breakin'  a  woman's  crockery.  They  caught  the  but- 
ter dish  on  the  end  of  a  bayonet  and  sent  it  crash- 
ing. They  swept  off  the  pair  of  vases  on  the  chim- 
bley  piece.  Grant  fought  our  men  hard — fought 
'em  night  and  day.  At  old  Harbour  the  wounded 
lay  between  the  lines  four  days  and  nights,  Yanks 
and  Rebs,  and  he  wouldn't  stop  long  enough  to  get 
'em  a  canteen  of  water.  But  he  fought.  Lincoln 
knew.  '  I  can't  spare  this  man — he  fights,'  he  said. 
Grant  didn't  go  round  breakin'  a  woman's  china." 

He  paused.  I  was  silent.  Some  negroe^  laughed 
in  the  little  "  calaboose  "  opposite.  An  order  was 
painted  over  the  jail  door:  "No  talking  with 
prisoners  allowed  under  penalty  of  law."  Children 
passed  in  a  farm  wagon  with  jingling  bells  at  the 
mules'  heads.  "  He's  gassing  about  the  war,"  one 
of  the  girls  said.  They  knew  his  weakness — or 
mine. 

"  No,  when  a  man  died  in  battle  the  enemy  who 
killed  him  took  an  equal  chance.  There  ain't  no 
bitterness  afterwards.  But  when  your  mother's 
house  is  sacked  or  your  wife's  little  keepsakes 

-j-329-*- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

pitched  out  as  though  they  was  dirt  a  fire  burns  in 

you  that  is  a  long  time  dying  down Grant 

was  the  South's  best  friend — him  and  Lincoln." 

A  half  hour  later  we  descended  Marye's  Heights 
into  Fredericksburg,  the  Princess  Anne's  Inn  of- 
fering us  comfortable  rooms  with  as  lovely  a  view  of 
rooftrees  as  one  can  ask  for.  When  the  dinner 
proved  excellent  I  suggested  that  we  remain  over 

Sunday.  But  W ,  although  liking  the  hotel 

pickles  to  the  verge  of  tears  (pickles  which  were 
made  by  a  "  private  coloured  man,"  so  the  waiter 
told  us),  wanted  to  get  it  over  with.  By  "  it "  I 
knew  he  meant  the  strip  of  bog  through  which  we 
must  toil  to  reach  the  ambition  of  every  American : 
Washington,  D.  C.  It  loomed  ahead  of  him  like 
Christian's  Slough  of  Despond,  yet,  like  Christian, 
he  knew  that  he  must  go  through  it.  As  a  pilgrim 
of  meaner  metal  I  should  have  remained  in  Freder- 
icksburg hoping  that  fair  weather  would  dry  up 
the  slough — a  cheery  theory  which  never  occurred 
to  Christian. 

My  aunt  had  told  me  of  many  things  to  do  at 
Fredericksburg,  and  I  rejoiced  that  everything  his- 
torical was  shut  up  this  Saturday  evening  not  to 
be  opened  again  until  Monday  morning.  I  had 
visited  a  number  of  places  which  she  had  warned 
me  were  important,  and  in  view  of  the  pleasant 
Saturday  night  do-nothingness  which  was  creeping 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

over  me,  I  felt  that  my  duty  to  my  husband  should 
come  first.  He  had  no  ambitions  beyond  taking 
Toby  out  for  a  walk  and  discovering  the  house  of 
Washington's  mother.  This  he  did  four  times, 
never  picking  a  winner,  like  an  unlucky  horseman 
at  a  race.  In  despair  I  sank  down  upon  an  ordi- 
nary stone  which  was  not  ordinary  at  all,  as  a  small 
boy  said,  with  great  solemnity,  "  You  are  sitting  on 
the  slave  block." 

I  leaped  hastily  home  although  no  one  seemed 
to  make  a  bid  for  me,  and  gained  what  I  thought 
would  be  the  deep  seclusion  of  my  room.  But  a 
voice  came  through  the  fourth  story  window  as 
close  to  me  as  though  Peter  Pan  were  in  the 
branches  of  the  great  tree  outside.  It  was  so  near 
that  I  thought  I  must  be  under  observance  as  well 
and  regretted  the  loosening  of  my  hair.  The  voice 
bade  me  "  Hurry!  Hurry!  Hurry!  The  second  act 
will  soon  begin.  Pretty  girls,  latest  songs,  high 
kicking,  and  funny  comedians." 

The  possibility  of  a  comedian  who  was  funny  car- 
ried me  to  the  window.  Over  the  treetops,  beyond 
the  respectable  church  towers,  I  could  see  the  old 
theatre  on  Main  Street  with  the  little  balcony  on 
which  the  manager  was  haranguing  through  a 
megaphone.  "Hurry!  Hurry!  Hurry!"  went  on 
the  mandate;  "pretty  girls,  lots  of  pretty  girls." 
No  one  seemed  to  be  heeding  him  and  I  wondered  if 

r-J-  331  -e- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

the  girls  were  looking  through  the  curtain  (al- 
though it  is  bad  luck  to  peep)  to  see  if  enough 
money  was  coming  into  the  house  to  pay  their  board 
that  week. 

"  Don't  miss  it,  gentlemen.  Pretty  girls,  high 
kicking,"  the  man  babbled  on.  How  the  auctioneer 
would  have  enjoyed  a  megaphone  while  a  black 
woman  stood  on  the  slave  block!  How  easily  he 
could  have  dwelt  upon  her  points.  Was  it  very 
different,  after  all,  this  man  on  the  theatre  balcony 
and  the  auctioneer  who  stood  beside  the  slave  block 
calling  his  wares  ?  I  have  always  thought  how  dis- 
agreeable it  must  be  to  depend  largely  upon  good 
looks  for  whatever  occupation  is  yours.  It  must 
be  acute  suffering  for  a  plain  girl  to  be  pushed  to 
the  back  row  of  a  chorus,  no  matter  how  well  she 
sings,  while  a  fluffier  one  is  brought  forward.  Did 
the  slaves,  I  wonder,  take  pride  in  fetching  a  good 
price?  If  so  what  despair  they  must  have  enter- 
tained in  their  hearts  as  their  strength  and  fitness 
left  them  and  their  value  slipped  away. 

I  heard  the  next  morning  that  the  troop  had  so 
successfully  managed  to  "  Hurry,  Hurry,  Hurry," 
that  they  got  off  without  paying  their  board,  and  I 
couldn't  help  being  relieved.  It  speaks  well  for  the 
citizens  of  Fredericksburg  who  were  not  lured  by 
the  megaphone  recital.  Now  if  the  manager  had 
only  barked  the  marriage  of  a  Miss  Pearl  to  a  Mr. 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

Arturo  the  town  would  probably  have  lent  them 
the  light  of  its  countenance.  All  this  from  the  col- 
oured bell  boy  who  clung  to  our  running  board 
while  he  showed  us  Fredericksburg. 

I  refused  to  pass  through  the  National  Cemetery 
where  lie  15,000  Union  soldiers  or  to  visit  those 
many  graves  of  the  Confederates.  One  need  not 
go  to  Marye's  Heights  to  stand  upon  a  battlefield. 
The  fierce  engagement  between  Burnside's  and 
Lee's  troops  was  fought  across  this  lovely  town. 
The  Confederates  upon  the  heights  held  the  superior 
position,  yet  in  spite  of  this  Burnside  ordered  Sum- 
ner's  brigade  across  the  plain  six  times,  with  enor- 
mous loss.  It  is  said  that  Hooker  urged  Burnside 
to  withdraw  our  Northern  troops,  but  the  Com- 
mander (who  you  may  recall  had  but  recently  suc- 
ceeded McClellan  after  Antietam)  held  stead- 
fastly to  his  plan  of  attack  until  12,653  Federals 
gave  their  lives  to  the  day's  unsuccessful  battling  as 
opposed  to  5,377  slain  Confederates.  What  was  in 
the  mind  of  Burnside  it  would  be  hard  to  say,  but 
history  shows  that  he  was  stunned  with  grief  after- 
ward, offering  his  resignation  which  was  accepted, 
and  Hooker,  his  chief  critic,  placed  in  command. 

Fredericksburg  shows  no  shadow  of  its  old  trage- 
dies. Modestly  appreciative  of  the  fame  which  cir- 
cumstances have  bestowed  upon  it,  the  old  town 
keeps  itself  for  the  visitor.  Privet  hedges  divide 

-J-333-J- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

the  lawns,  many  of  the  houses  are  painted  pale  yel- 
low with  roofs  and  shutters  of  a  lovely  green,  and, 
lacking  a  coloured  boy  upon  the  running  board,  the 
citizens  gladly  point  out  the  way.  The  house  where 
Washington's  mother  died  was  finally  achieved. 
He  had  urged  her  to  come  in  from  her  country 
place  during  the  French  and  Indian  Wars,  here  he 
visited  her  and  the  building  still  stands  where  he 
was  made  a  Mason. 

Our  coloured  guide  felt  our  ignorance  and  .en- 
joyed it — which  was  a  great  relief.  He  brought  us 
to  the  shaft  of  stone  erected  in  her  honour. 
"  Mary's,"  he  said  respectfully,  "  the  mother  of 
George."  He  told  us  that  this  monument  may  not 
be  the  onliest  one  put  up  for  a  lady,  but  it  am  the 
highest,  and  that  it  was  placed  fairly  remotely  from 
the  town  because  she  often  visited  this  spot.  "  She 
did  not  meditate  on  this  hyah  spot  becase  it  am  call 
Meditation  Rock,  but  it  am  call  Meditation  Rock 
becase  she  done  meditate  hyar."  We  were  all  quite 
confused  after  this,  but  I  carried  away  a  clear  re- 
gret that  we  do  not  have  a  rock  in  every  New  York 
apartment  where  we  can  go  to  think.  I  suppose  I 

would  not  be  alone  even  there,  W coming  to 

the  rock  room  to  ask  suspiciously  what  I  was  think- 
ing about  in  the  fear  that  I  was  planning  a  divorce, 
or  wanting  to  come  in  and  lean  on  the  rock  and 
think,  too. 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

In  the  complexities  of  getting  away — I  may  say 
the  anxieties,  for  W-  -  was  deep  in  conference 
with  automobilists  over  the  road — he  forgot  to  take 
his  pickles  ordered  from  the  private  coloured  man, 
although  a  lunch  was  put  up  and  delivered  to  us 
with  chilling  ceremony  as  though  it  was  the  last 
meal  of  condemned  men.  It  had  been  the  concen- 
sus that  we  pass  over  the  strip  of  bad  road  without 
an  attempt  at  the  detour,  as  the  detour  was  now 
worse  than  the  road  for  which  the  detour  is  made. 

We  listened  to  the  autoists  rather  indulgently  as 
they  told  us  of  farmhouses  where  we  would  find 
chains  if  we  lacked  the  essentials  for  pulling  our- 
selves out  of  the  clay.  We  had  seen  some  bad  roads 
before  and  had  managed  them  very  nicely,  and  it 
was  difficult  to  believe  that  a  highway  leading  to 
Washington,  and  one  in  constant  use  for  two  cen- 
turies by  the  grandees  of  Virginia  would  hold  any- 
thing of  terror  for  seasoned  motorists.  We  had 
been  vaccinated  by  the  Blue  Ridge  passes,  the  virus 
was  excellent,  and  we  felt  as  immune  as  an  inocu- 
lated soldier.  We  had  forgotten  that  there  are  no 
bacilli  to  protect  one  from  the  dangers  of  a  devas- 
tating bomb.  I  did  not  recall  until  later  that  it  was 
Sunday,  and  that  such  mishaps  as  have  befallen  us 
have  generally  occurred  on  the  Sabbath  day.  I  be- 
lieve now  that  motor  cars  are  deeply  religious.  One 
may  observe  in  the  Monday  morning  papers  the 

-j-335-H- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

harvest  of  accidents  of  the  day  before.  It  must  be 
very  painful  to  a  highly  moral  motor  car  to  carry 
around  a  lot  of  joy  riders  who  ought  to  be  in  church 
growing  better.  I  suppose  when  the  occupants  be- 
come too  joyful  for  the  day,  the  car  bucks  and 
throws  them  out.  "  Steering  gear  goes  wrong," 
reads  the  newspapers — but  the  other  motors  know! 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  gone  wrong 
any  quicker  than  we  did,  although  the  steering  gear 
remained  ethically  correct.  The  only  thing  I  can 
make  out  that  we  did  rightly  after  crossing  the 
Rappahannock  was  to  pay  toll  for  a  good  road 
which  the  motor  would  not  let  us  long  enjoy.  At 
Garrisonville  it  wilfully  carried  us  away  from  the 
fine  highway,  although  we  vigorously  protested  that 
our  path  couldn't  be  the  right  one.  One  would 
think  an  engine,  even  a  fanatic  on  religion,  would 
not  care  to  do  this,  and  I  suppose  the  chassis  puts 
such  tricks  up  to  the  poor  creature  and  then  lets  it 
pant  and  puff  to  pull  him  along — a  chassis  is  mas- 
culine, I  am  sure. 

We  brought  up  at  a  farm  called  Pleasant  View. 
It  was  a  very  pleasant  view,  indeed,  the  gentleman 
farmer  pointing  out  to  us  a  nice  but  distant  pros- 
pect of  the  fine  highway  from  which  we  had 
strayed.  He  said  it  was  no  trouble  to  get  back  to  it, 
just  take  a  tiny  (almost  unborn)  road  back  of  his 
barn.  We  thanked  him,  not  having  seen  the  se- 

-4-336-*- 


THE  WHITE  HOUSE  FROM  THE  LAWN,  WASHINGTON 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

lected  itinerary  until  we  got  behind  the  barn.  We 
did  not  meet  with  his  household  again,  and  I  sup- 
pose they  thought  we  were  skimming  along  on  the 
highway  while  we  were  still  two  hundred  feet  away 
from  them  behind  the  large  house  for  their  kine, 
shovelling  the  mud  off  the  running  board.  It  never 
entered  the  head  of  the  cordial  proprietor  of  Pleas- 
ant View  that  this  road  was  bad  enough  for  even  a 
mild  cautioning,  and  as  we  made  our  way  out 

W delivered  what  I  suppose  is  a  problem:  "  If 

a  Virginian  does  not  consider  this  cowpath  some- 
thing awful,  how  awful  will  be  the  way  ahead  of 
us  which  all  Virginians  admit  is  well-nigh  impass- 
able?" 

But  that  was  while  we  were  still  behind  the  barn. 
As  soon  as  we  had  reached  the  thoroughfare  again 
dangers  ahead  lessened  in  their  import.  I  found 
this  significant  in  my  general  resume  of  the  run. 
The  whole  day  was  significant,  for  it  was  our  last 
one  in  the  Old  Dominion — if  the  reader  insists, 
as  the  Virginian  does,  that  this  state  and  no  other 
is  really  the  territory  which  we  went  forth  to  dis- 
cover. And  Washington  was  the  end  of  the  run, 
the  goal  for  all  Americans,  whose  achievement  is 
possible  for  such  as  take  the  bad  going  with  the 
good. 

I  like  to  think  that  the  bog,  which  presently  con- 
fronted us,  stands  for  the  despair  through  which 

-+337-J- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

we  must  all  struggle  before  we  reach  the  winning 
post  of  our  high  desires.  I  believe  that  the  roads 
over  which  we  travelled  represent  more  perfectly 
the  progress  of  life  than  my  first  metaphorical  illu- 
sions in  this  book  predicted.  Socially,  politically, 
man  takes  to  the  road.  He  finds  it  easy,  he  finds  it 
rough.  He  finds  it  rough  where  he  would  have 
thought  it  easy,  he  strikes  good  going  when  he  was 
preparing  to  be  ditched.  Although  railing  against 
figures  of  speech  in  a  preceding  chapter,  I  find 
myself  now  deep  in  them  again.  It  seems  impos- 
sible to  avoid  them.  And  perhaps  that  is  another 
thing  we  discoverd:  all  progress  in  life— mental, 
spiritual,  or  just  going  along  a  road — is  analogous 
each  to  the  other. 

Certainly  I  was  a  poor  pilgrim  when  we  reached 
the  swamp.  The  way  suddenly  revealed  itself  to 
us.  It  was  not  a  way,  it  was  not  a  swamp.  It  was 
like  the  extinct  crater  of  a  volcano  or  a  deserted 
trench  after  the  curtain  of  fire.  Broad,  solitary,  it 
seemingly  stretched  inimitably  ahead  of  us,  al- 
though there  is  but  six  miles  of  it.  The  ruts  were 

axle  deep  and  the  mud  holes  bottomless.    W 

got  out  to  walk  ahead  and  direct  the  driver,  keep- 
ing him  out  of  the  wheel  tracks,  and  as  much  as 
possible  on  the  ridges  between  the  gullies.  I  got 
out  to  walk  ahead,  too  cowardly  to  look  back  upon 
the  tugging  engine  but  straining  with  my  spine  as 

-»-  338  -*-. 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

meagre  assistance.  There  may  have  been  wild 
flowers  to  brighten  our  path  but  I  didn't  notice 
them,  and  I  think  if  the  chauffeur  had  cried  out 

"  briar  rose  "  or  "  humming  bird  "!  W would 

have  buried  him  deep  in  a  mud  hole. 

The  murdered  man  would  not  have  been  with- 
out articles  as  foreign  to  the  bog  as  himself.  Tin 
gasoline  cans  were  in  these  holes,  rocks  dragged 
from  a  distance,  madly  uprooted  pine  trees,  and  bits 
of  chain  which  had  undoubtedly  groaned,  then, 
snapping,  unfulfilled  their  mission.  Frayed  ropes 
were  tied  to  the  trees  which  told  of  the  resorting 
to  "  Dutch  windmills,"  and  an  empty  flask  now  and 
then  spoke  eloquently  of  the  last  resort  of  the  dis- 
tracted motorist.  Thanks  to  the  carefully  picked 
route  of  the  Illustrator's  and  to  a  light  car  with  a 
good  engine  we  did  not  sink  so  deep  but  that  our 
own  power  carried  us  out,  and  just  as  I  felt  that 
there  was  no  end  at  all  we  saw  the  end  ahead. 

The  greatest  trial  was  yet  to  come  for  another 
strip  of  ground,  admitted  by  the  Virginians  as 
quite  impassable,  was  before  us,  and  we  had  been 
told  that  this  time  a  detour  was  necessary.  We 
must  not  miss  this  deviation — the  whole  Princess 
Anne  Hotel  had  been  very  certain  about  that.  But 
the  Princess  Anne  went  further,  she  said  we 
couldn't  miss  it.  I  don't  know  why  she  said  that, 
it  aroused  all  that  was  antagonistic  both  in  motor 

-e-339-J- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

and  man.  We  could  miss  anything — especially  a 
good  turn  on  a  Sunday.  Not  being  Indians — not 
recognised  Indians — I  think,  myself,  that  the 
marks  in  the  woods  by  which  we  were  to  be  guided 
were  a  little  vague.  I  suppose  an  Indian  could 
smell  the  right  turn.  Even  I  thought  that  we  had 
reached  it  too  soon,  but  I  said  so  in  a  small  voice 
as  it  would  be  rather  awful  to  advise  a  wrong  turn 

during  such  anxious  moments.    W said  it  must 

be  the  turn  as  there  was  an  A.  A.  A.  sign  nailed  to 
a  tree  and  that  was  one  of  our  guiding  marks.  And 
while  I  had  a  number  of  intelligent  replies  regard- 
ing the  number  of  trees  and  the  number  of  A.  A.  A. 
signs  in  this  world  I  told  them  only  to  Toby. 

This  new  perambulation  held  only  the  gloomiest 
prospects.  After  twenty  yards  it  grew  worse  than 
our  first  boggy  wading.  It  grew  unbelievably 
worse.  It  was  so  wide  and  yawning.  A  fallen  wire 
nearly  cut  off  our  heads.  I  marvelled  that  a  white 
man  could  ever  have  been  in  that  locality  to  string 
it  up  in  the  first  place.  Yet  we  saw  the  beautiful 
faces  of  two  white  men  before  we  had  quite  gone 
around  the  globe — time  and  space  were  immeasur- 
able, you  understand.  And  yet,  again,  I  would 
rather  not  have  seen  those  faces.  They  were  not 
murderous  or  sodden  with  vice.  They  were  ordi- 
nary faces  with  moustaches,  their  eyes  sticking  out 
rather  queerly  from  the  gloom  of  a  canopied  auto- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

mobile,  looking  no  doubt  as  ours  did.  My  distaste 
for  their  countenances  was  their  familiarity.  I  had 
seen  them  somewhere  before.  I  had  seen  them — 
the  two  cars  continued  rocking,  plunging,  skidding 
toward  each  other,  but  ere  we  were  abreast  I  asked 
them  from  whence  they  came. 

And  they  were  coming  from  Fredericksburg!  I 
had  seen  them  in  the  hotel.  They  had  chosen  the 
detour  which  we  had  avoided.  We  were  going  back 
over  the  greater  of  two  evils  to  the  place  from  which 
we  had  started — they  told  us  we  had  almost  covered 
the  detour.  At  this  point  one  can  employ  all  the 
similes  at  one's  command.  To  find  ourselves  in 
life  going  backward  after  we  have  struggled  so 
bravely  to  go  forward !  To  have  to  turn  about,  be 
it  ever  so  difficult  to  turn,  and  do  it  over  again. 
To  travel,  in  this  painful  retracing,  without  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  for  we  know  the  road  to  hold  no 
pleasant  deviation.  To  hate  it  and  hate  it  but  to  go 
through  with  it — the  far  city  of  ambitions  for  our 
striving  point  rather  than  any  mean  slumping  to 
the  small  town  of  our  beginnings  which  lies  so  near. 
To  know  that  this  wrong  turn  is  of  our  own  choos- 
ing, for  we  cannot  pick  our  way  as  yet  through  the 
paths  of  life  with  any  sureness  of  instinct.  And, 
blackest  terror!  the  consciousness  that  wd  must 
keep  on  bungling  until  the  vague  sign-postings  read 
themselves  clear. 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

In  this  fashion — unlamenting — we  lurched  again 
toward  Washington.  The  second  detour  was  so 
amiable  in  its  construction — by  comparison — that 
we  found  a  disguised  blessing  in  earlier  trials. 
And  that,  too,  can  be  twisted  into  metaphorical 
fancyings.  For  the  last  time  we  ate  our  luncheon 
under  the  shade  of  trees  with  a  brook  to  cool  the 
motor's  wheels,  frightening  the  trout  from  out  their 
rocky  castles  and  leaving  them  apologetic  bread 
crumbs  for  their  return. 

At  Occoquan  we  were  politely  received  by  a  road 
so  excellent  that  we  felt  our  troubles  to  be  over, 
and  with  something  of  the  assurance  of  the  man 
who  has  made  his  fortune  we  took  time  for  the 
enjoyment  of  the  town.  The  mills  along  the  water's 
edge  had  gone  to  ruin  picturesquely.  What  is  in 
the  Illustrator's  sketch  as  attractive  desolation 
from  the  water  side  was,  at  the  top  of  the  high  bank 
along  which  ran  the  main  street,  a  neat  little  gar- 
age for  small  cars.  The  town  was  very  busy  as 
time,  tide,  and  fish  wait  for  no  man.  A  great  school 
of  godless  herring  had  gone  with  the  tide  on  a  Sun- 
day excursion  up  Occoquan  Creek,  and  with  doubt- 
ful hospitality  the  citizens  had  prevented  their  de- 
parture with  alluring  nets.  They  were  now  em- 
ployed sitting  along  the  stream  skinning  the  vis- 
itors. On  the  whole  our  punishment  had  been  less 

-»-  342  +- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

severe  and  I  am  certain  ancient  Occoquan  would 
"  skin  "  no  journeying  motorist. 

We  made  vigorous  efforts  to  clean  each  other  up 
as  we  became  part  of  a  long  line  of  automobiles 
running  safely  and  surely  over  the  pike.  Many 
of  them  bore  the  number  of  the  District  of  Colum- 
bia. Washington  was  theirs,  with  attendant  strug- 
gles like  our  own,  perhaps,  or  by  accident  of  birth 
like  babies  who  first  see  the  world  with  silver  spoons 
in  their  mouths.  Drunk  with  pride  of  conquest 
we  now  felt  that,  aesthetically,  it  would  be  incom- 
plete to  enter  Washington  without  first  paying  our 
respects  to  Mount  Vernon.  It  would  be  a  swift 
run  of  two  miles  off  the  highway  and  a  swift  return. 
Poor,  trusting  children  of  the  road  that  we  were, 
encouraged  by  a  few  miles  of  macadam  into  believ- 
ing that  the  paved  streets  of  heaven  were  ours 
forever. 

Since  Virginia  had  not  seen  fit  in  two  centuries 
of  travel  over  the  main  road  to  adopt  some  measure 
of  filling  up  that  swamp  we  might  have  expected  a 
highway  no  more  impressive  leading  to  the  house 
of  the  Father  of  our  Country.  Yet  we  found  our- 
selves surprised  when  we  sank  into  a  mud  hole  just 
before  Mount  Vernon  and  for  the  first  time  on  our 
trip  could  not  muster  the  power  to  get  out  of  it. 
The  way  to  the  posts  of  honour  is  not  easily  gained ! 
I  committed  my  only  indiscretion  of  the  run  as  I 

H-  343  -*-• 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

sat  in  the  smoking  car  with  wheels  whirring  help- 
lessly. "It's  Sunday,"  I  said,  "what  should  we 
expect?  c  Had  I  but  served  my  God  with  half  the 

zeal  I  serve  my  king,  he  would ' "  I  got  no 

further. 

"Great  Scott!"  shouted  the  Illustrator  excit- 
edly. "  Sitting  there  chanting  Shakespeare,  and 
what  we  need  is  a  chain  and  a  team.  Even  the  Bible 
justifies  pulling  a  dumb  animal  out  of  a  ditch  on 
the  Sabbath  day." 

But  neither  of  us  was  taking  the  situation  with 
any  degree  of  tortured  anxiety  for  the  inexplicable 
reason  that  we  were  enjoying  it!  As  I  started 
briskly  up  a  side  path  to  seek  a  farmhouse  I  re- 
flected on  this  sensation  of  exhilaration  which — if 
we  only  admit  it — frequently  attends  a  catastrophe. 
I  believe  if  all  of  us  were  to  analyse  our  emotions 
over  the  little  accidents  in  life  we  would  find  that 
we  were  getting  out  of  the  event  as  much  amuse- 
ment as  annoyance.  "  Am  I  not  enjoying  this,  am 
I  not? "  ask  yourself,  and  then  it  may  not  seem  so 
bad. 

I  was  certainly  amused  when  I  reached  the 
farmer's.  He  saw  me  from  a  distance  swinging 
my  motor  hat  and  goggles  at  him  for  there  was  a 
surrey  in  front  of  the  house  and  I  feared  he  might 
go  off  in  it  before  my  arrival.  He  did  go  off  upon 
discovering  my  advent,  disappearing  behind  the 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

house  to  return  before  I  had  explained  my  mission 
to  his  wife.  He  was  dragging  several  feet  of  chain. 
"  Which  one?  "  was  all  he  asked  as  we  climbed  into 
the  surrey.  It  developed  that  it  was  the  second 
one.  The  cars  generally  stuck  in  the  first  mud  hole 
which  we  had  manipulated  without  any  great  effort. 
The  farmers  had  thought  of  making  up  a  purse 
themselves  and  filling  in  the  holes,  and  it  would 
surely  be  done  by  the  Washington  Automobile 
Club  shortly  if  Virginia  continued  to  neglect  her 
duty.  I  thought  him  a  very  honest  gentleman  when 
he  must  make  a  considerable  sum  of  money  pulling 
out  cars,  and  I  wondered  if  any  baser  soul  in  other 
days  had  created  this  lucrative  demand  for  horses 
and  chains  by  digging  deep  late  o'  nights.  We  have 
since  learned  that  these  bottomless  pits  are  on  a  part 
of  the  estate  once  comprising  Mount  Vernon,  very 
aptly  designated  on  the  map  Washington  made 
himself  as  Muddy  Hole  Farm.  Possibly,  the  Asso- 
ciation for  the  Preservation  of  Virginia  Antiquities 
has  kept  the  land  as  it  was,  preventing  any  restora- 
tion so  that  the  holes  may  remain  in  their  quaint 
old  colonial  form.  We  were  very  friendly  by  the 
time  we  had  surreyed  to  the  second  mud  hole,  and 
I  was  feeling  sorry  for  the  Illustrator  who  was  not 
enjoying  the  drive  with  Mr.  Campbell  and  his  nice 
family  as  was  I.  Yet  we  found  him  agreeably  en- 
gaged with  Mr.  Mann  and  family  who  had  also 

H-  345  •*-. 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

ventured  "  like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on 
bladders,"  and  were  halting  their  huge  car  until 
we  could  get  out  of  the  Virginia  antiquity  so  that 
they  could  get  into  it.  Small  cars  had  also  joined 
the  fray,  companions  in  distress,  for  we  stood  be- 
tween them  and  Mount  Vernon  like  dogs  in  the 
manger.  It  was  Mr.  Campbell  who  dealt  us  our 
last  blow  for  Sabbath  breaking.  Mount  Vernon,  he 
told  us,  was  never  opened  on  the  Lord's  day.  So 
it  was  all  for  nothing  save  the  making  of  new 
friends. 

Mr.  Campbell  furnished  the  chains  and  Mr. 
Mann's  big  car  pulled  us  out  backward,  pulled  us 
away  from  Mount  Vernon  and  its  quagmires  for 
the  unregenerate.  It  was  easily  done  as  we  knew  it 
would  be.  We  all  shook  hands.  The  surrey  de- 
parted in  the  direction  of  the  highway,  the  big  mo- 
tor backed  up  the  road  also,  the  little  cars  flopped 
in  and  out  of  the  mud  and  went  home.  With  care 
we  retraced  our  steps  as  well,  and  in  two  minutes 
we  came  upon  the  big  car  again  (surrounded  by  the 
little  cars,  attended  by  the  surrey),  itself  deep  in 
the  mire!  Again  the  chains,  again  the  fluttering 
of  the  little  cars,  again  the  applause  as  our  car 
pulled  Mr.  Mann's  car  from  out  mud  hole  number 
one. 

The  situation  was  Virginian  to  the  end.  Mr. 
Campbell  refused  any  gift  beyond  the  gift  of 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

thanks.  Even  though  we  broke  his  chain  he  ac- 
cepted it  as  gracefully  as  though  he  had  courted 
this  loosening  of  his  shackles.  "  Ships  that  pass  in 
the  night,"  murmured  the  Illustrator  when  we  were 
alone.  "  A  real  friend-ship,"  I  suggested  in  a  thin 
voice  fearing  it  wouldn't  go  very  well.  It  didn't. 
But  our  final  encounter  with  the  mud  of  Virginia 
and  this  quick  gathering  of  her  people  to  offset  the 
mud  is  the  last  needed  bit  of  material  for  the 
modelling  of  my  figure  of  speech.  The  imagery  is 
complete.  Whether  it  is  Sunday  or  washday, 
prayer-meeting  night  or  fish  night,  it  is  my 
sincere  belief  that  he  who  sinks  in  the  mire  will 
find  those  to  lift  him  out  if  he  cares  to  make  the 
struggle. 

I  shall  promise  no  more  metaphor,  none  of  my 
own  poor  building  at  least.  Realities  began  crowd- 
ing upon  us.  A  brand  new  car  with  a  brand  new 
driver  pinched  us  off  the  road  as  we  were  about  to 
pass;  we  were  intent  upon  the  warnings  of  the 
traffic  cops;  we  grew  nervous  over  the  possibility 
of  carrying  a  number  of  the  District  of  Columbia 
— the  responsibilities  of  an  involved  living  were 
settling  down  upon  us.  City  influences  were  felt. 
Even  before  we  reached  the  bridge  across  the  Po- 
tomac the  Washington  monument  beckoned  us  on. 
We  steered  by  it  and  found  its  permanence  satisfy- 
ing to  the  mariner.  We  bumped  upon  the  bridge 

-e-  347  •+- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

which  took  us  out  of  the  Old  Dominion 
with  the  same  vigour  that  we  bumped  into  the 
state. 

"  Good-bye,  Virginia,"  sang  the  Illustrator, 
"  with  all  thy  ruts  I  love  thee  still!  " 

We  approached  the  Shoreham  Hotel  through 
Elysian  fields,  pierced  by  the  high  walls  of  Amer- 
ica's real  bulwarks — the  sky-scraping  business 
blocks.  For  the  second  time  Toby  and  I  ap- 
proached the  desk  of  a  great  hotel  as  members  in 
good  standing  of  "  Sons  and  Daughters  of  the 
Soil."  We  were  permitted  to  stay  on  two  condi- 
tions :  one  that  we  would  depart  the  following  day, 
the  other  that  Toby  would  allow  himself  to  be  car- 
ried up  and  down  in  the  elevators.  I  was  feel- 
ing very  untidy,  and  as  though  my  money  was  not 
real.  The  band  was  playing,  scented  ladies  sat 
about  on  throne  chairs,  men  of  might  chatted 
around  me,  a  glittering  servant  approached  the 
desk  bearing  the  huge  cream  envelope  of  a  foreign 
embassy.  It  was  for  W . 

We  were  still  obliged  to  leave  on  the  morrow  but 
Toby  was  granted  the  run  of  the  lift.  Porters  be- 
gan carrying  our  clay-encrusted  luggage  to  our 
rooms.  A  motor  hat  box  lends  an  air  of  importance 
to  any  woman  no  matter  how  travel-stained.  The 

valet  who  recognised  W from  previous  visits 

straightened  him  out  while  he  retailed  the  small  talk 

-*-  348  -*- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

of  the  town.  He  knew  the  great  talk  as  well,  I 
imagine,  from  his  round  of  visits,  but  he  was  dis- 
creet. We  scrubbed  Toby;  we  dressed;  we  dined. 
A  little  table  had  been  reserved  for  us  in  the  midst 
of  the  gay  company.  Great  names  were  paged. 
Plain  women,  badly  gowned,  sipped  water  nerv- 
ously. A  Congressman  demanded  a  high  chair  for 
his  baby.  From  all  the  roads  that  lead  to  Washing- 
ton they  had  come.  I  began  to  "  shake  down  "  into 
place.  The  lobby,  a  second  time  traversed,  was  no 
longer  strange  to  me.  The  atmosphere  had  ceased 
to  be  exotic.  This  was  the  pot-pourri  of  the  coun- 
try. Field  flowers  were  blended  with  gardenias. 
Put  me  down  as  one  of  the  wall-flowers  in  the  jar, 
for  I  was  "  at  home  "  again. 

The  three  of  us  went  for  a  walk  with  the  aim- 
less strolling  of  those  whose  tasks  are  done.  The 
Illustrator  was  more  than  satisfied,  but  I  was  still 
uneasy  for  I  had  not  found  my  heart's  quest.  I  had 
found  no  mansion  as  satisfactory  as  Elsie  Dins- 
more's.  And  yet  I  had  not  lost  my  faith  that  some- 
where was  a  great  house  gleaming  white,  with  gar- 
dens and  an  avenue,  and  darkies  singing  happily, 
which  would  fill  the  vision  of  my  youth.  "  You 

will  find  it,"  said  W placidly,  "  if  I  have  to 

draw  it  for  you  on  white  cardboard."  He  halted 
as  he  spoke,  pricking  up  the  ear  that  the  chills 
and  fever  warning  had  left  in  working  order. 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

"  Listen,"  he  consoled,  "  it's  the  darkies  singing 
happily." 

It  was  not  the  magic  of  moonlight  which  lent 
enchantment  to  the  little  circle  standing  under  an 
electric  light  to  sing  because  they  could  walk  no 
further  without  singing.  They  wore  high  collars 
and  pointed  shoes,  "  nobby  "  checked  suits  and  car- 
ried canes.  Their  hats  were  on  the  back  of  their 
heads — Panamas,  not  the  brown  derbies  of  their 
Southern  kin.  They  sang  "  Good-bye,  Girls,  Good- 
bye," but  their  voices  were  of  the  plantation. 

We  lined  up  at  the  curb  for  they  were  opposite, 
and  as  I  placed  myself  in  a  position  to  see  them 
plainly  I  saw  past  them.  I  saw  their  back  drop. 
It  was  a  great  house  in  a  great  park,  with  an  ave- 
nue, and  gardens  profusely  distributed  about.  The 
house  was  of  the  desired  colonial  architecture.  The 
roof  was  flat,  and  there  were  pillars,  and  it  was  big 
enough.  Under  the  brilliant  lights  carriages  were 
drawing  up  before  the  wide  door.  Servitors  as- 
sisted the  visitors  to  descend.  They  mounted  the 
steps  of  the  porte  cochere — the  enormous  porte 
cochere — and  passed  within  the  mansion.  It  was 
better  than  Elsie's,  more  purely  Greek  than  Elsie's, 
more  richly  encircled  than  Elsie's.  I  had  found  it 
at  last.  I  had  found  it  at  the  end  of  the  road.  The 
end  of  all  material  desires,  visions  of  the  soul,  ambi- 
tions of  the  mind.  Yet  in  the  confusion  of  new 

-_+.  350  -*- 


WASHINGTON  FOR  THE  JOURNEY'S  END 

buildings  since  my  last  visit  to  Washington  the 
mansion  was  strange  to  me.  It  was  humiliating  but 
I  turned  to  him  to  learn  whose  house  this  was — be- 
fore I  took  it  for  my  own. 

"  It's  just  the  house  it  should  be,"  said  W . 

"  It's  the  White  House." 


351 


CHAPTER  XVI 

/  •-.'•. 

This  Is  the  End,  I  Promise  You.    If  You  Are 

Sorry  I  Am  Glad,  if  You  Are  Glad  I 

Am  Sorry — but  I  Cant  Blame  You 

"  PSYCHOLOGICALLY,"  I  said,  choking  slightly,  "  I 
am  through.  There  shouldn't  be  another  chapter." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  Illustrator.  "Leave 
them  flat? " 

And  I  was  delighted  with  this  encouragement  to 
go  on,  for  I  wish  to  tell  you  not  only  how  to  get 
home,  but  of  his  new  purple  tie  purchased  for  the 
French  Embassy.  I  don't  know  why  this  man  buys 
a  purple  tie  whenever  he  is  in  touch  with  the  Gaul. 
In  Paris  he  ever  returns  from  a  shopping  expedi- 
tion with  stockings  all  the  wrong  size,  as  feet  over 
there  seem  to  be  without  numbers,  and  one  purple 
tie. 

I  suppose  such  effervescent  equipment  is  our  ef- 
fort to  capture  and  assume  the  spirit  of  France — 
as  though  it  went  on  like  a  shirt.  We  thought  it 
was  clothes  for  a  long  time  which  made  the  man 
over  there;  now  we  know  their  braided  vest- 
ments, pointed  shoes,  and  waxed  moustachios  to  be 
as  the  Sunday  holiday  in  the  Bois  or  the  stroll  up 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

the   boulevards   every  afternoon :   merely   "  trim- 
mings," in  no  way  an  essential  to  French  life. 

W and  the  chauffeur  came  back  very  for- 
eign and  gallant  in  their  manner  toward  me.  I 
think  a  little  interview  now  and  then  with  a  French 
Ambassador  would  do  a  great  deal  of  good  to  a  great 
many  American  husbands.  I  suppose  you  could 
even  hit  a  lady  charmingly  and  diplomatically  after 
a  study  of  the  system.  His  gloves  were  already  in 
his  pocket  as  we  started  on  toward  Baltimore,  and 
I  didn't  ask  him  if  he  wore  them  in  the  drawing 
room  or  ripped  them  off  hastily  at  the  last  moment 
for  I  too  was  feeling  the  reflected  lustre  of  di- 
plomacy. 

One  could  travel  very  well  over  the  road  to  Balti- 
more dressed  in  tulle,  for  there  was  no  dust  and  the 
smoothness  of  the  way  invited  us  to  a  forbidden 
speed.  We  were  to  have  this  sort  of  a  dancing 
floor  from  Washington  on.  Many  will  enjoy  just 
such  motoring,  asking  for  no  other  thrilling  de- 
nouement than  that  of  reaching  a  given  point  with 
as  much  ease  as  possible.  I  like  it  myself.  But  you 
will  notice  that  things  do  not  "  happen  "  when  the 
road  is  very  good,  and  in  the  peopled,  well-paved 
country  you  will  be  something  of  a  cipher  no  mat- 
ter how  luxurious  your  car.  You  will  no  longer  be 
an  event.  You  will  not  add  to  your  experiences  or 
to  those  of  others — but  you  will  be  comfortable. 

-j-  353  -«- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

That  is,  you  will  be  comfortable  until  you  strike 
the  cobble  stones  of  Baltimore.  They  appear  to 
rise  up  and  hit  you  with  the  same  violence  exer- 
cised when  they  were  thrown  by  the  Baltimore  mob 
at  the  Federal  troops.  If  Maryland  was  on  the 
side  of  the  North  its  greatest  city  was  largely 
Southern  in  its  sympathies,  and  it  has  remained  so 
even  to  the  paving.  We  saw  its  towers  from  a  dis- 
tance in  a  late  sun,  and,  as  always  before  when  ap- 
proaching the  city,  I  thought  of  Rome.  There  is  no 
reason  for  this,  and  the  association  of  the  two  must 
be  an  intangible  religious  influence,  for  Rome  is  to 
Europe  what  Baltimore  is  to  our  States. 

The  great  closed  mansions  of  Monument  Street 
are  as  the  palaces  of  Rome,  especially  those  noble 
houses  which  were  so  passionately  for  the  Pope  that 
the  courtyards  were  barred  to  all  society  from  the 
day  that  the  Holy  Father  became  a  prisoner  at  the 
Vatican.  The  mansions  of  Monument  Street  have 
not  the  tolerance  of  the  real  nobles.  In  Italy  the 
grand  palazzi  arises  from  squalourous  districts; 
pretty  children,  olive  skinned  by  nature  and  circum- 
stance, play  at  the  feet  of  the  Major  Domo  who 
guards  the  gates,  and  the  tired  citizen  finds  a  rest- 
ing-place on  the  sills  of  the  lower  windows. 

There  are  no  benches  placed  along  the  strip  of 
green  which  divides  Monument  Street.  The  foun- 
tains play  and  one  must  stand  to  enjoy  them.  The 

-j-  354  •+- 


MONUMENT  STREET,  BALTIMORE 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

flowers  bloom  but  you  must  not  kneel  upon  the 
grass  to  sniff  their  fragrance.  "  Dogs  are  not  al- 
lowed except  in  leash."  Charles  Street,  however, 
which  intersects  Monument,  the  two  becoming 
Mount  Vernon  Place  for  a  square  either  way,  is 
more  generous  to  that  portion  of  the  public  who 
would  most  appreciate  the  beauty  of  a  green  open 
space.  The  splendid  shaft  to  Washington  is  sur- 
mounted by  his  graven  image.  I  don't  remember 
which  way  he  is  looking,  but  I  hope  that  it  is  not 
up  snobby  Monument  Street  but  down  bonnie 
Charles  where  the  people  sit  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees,  with  lovers  always  going  up  and  down 
the  stone  steps  which  break  the  slope.  And  the 
fountain  is  so  inviting  that  straightway  one  thinks 
of  soda  water  and  pleasant  modern  things. 

We  did  not  need  a  bench  after  dinner  for  we  sat 
upon  a  graded  scaffolding  in  the  wide  circle  about 
the  statue  which  was  being  built  for  a  flower  mart- 
shortly  to  be  held.  We  enjoyed  our  perch,  al- 
though not  looking  as  well  as  hydrangeas  probably, 
and  I  cannot  speak  too  highly  of  the  honesty  of 

Baltimoreans  for  W left  his  war  book  on  the 

improvised  bench  while  we  went  prowling  off  for 
soda  water  and  did  not  return  for  an  hour.  It  was 
still  there,  which  troubled  the  author,  as  he  was 
glad  he  found  it,  but  regretted  that  no  one  would 
steal  it. 

-j-355-J- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

I  beg  to  add,  so  that  he  may  continue  modest  in 
your  eyes,  that  carrying  it  around  was  not  his  habit. 
Some  one  in  the  hotel  had  sent  the  copy  to  him  for 
his  signature,  and  while  this  may  never  get  in  (this 
wot's  coming  now)  as  we  have  different  publishers, 
I  promise  you  that  he  will  autograph  any  book  free 
of  charge,  or  if  he  won't  I  will  do  it  myself  in  his 
own  best  handwriting.  I  am  very  good  at  this.  A 
United  States  President  lived  across  the  street  from 
us  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and,  possessing  one  of 
his  signatures,  I  manufactured  dozens  just  as  good 
and  sent  them  around  to  all  my  f  ar-oif  relatives.  I 
am  less  steeped  in  crime  than  I  was  in  my  youth 
(leading  the  simple  life  of  an  actress)  and  when- 
ever I  enter  their  homes  to  see  framed  and  auto- 
graphed pictures  of  our  illustrious  neighbour,  I 
wonder  if  my  greater  punishment  will  be  for  the 
sins  of  my  childhood  or  those  of  maturer  years. 

There  was  some  difficulty  in  finding  the  ice  cream 
soda,  although  the  more  we  heard  the  chalice-like 
fountain  splash  the  more  frantic  we  became  for  the 
desired  chocolate  flavour.  The  search  grew  so  vital 
to  us  that  we  felt  suddenly  as  young  as  when  an  ice 
cream  soda  meant  a  good  deal  in  one's  life.  The 
most  remarkable  part  of  this  hunt  for  the  nectar  of 
the  gods  was  its  taste  when  we  at  last  hunted  it  to  its 
fizzly  source.  It  was  as  good  as  we  had  expected, 
and  this  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  flavour,  rather 

-j-356-*- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

could  it  be  traced  to  the  chief  reason  for  including 
Baltimore  as  part  of  our  itinerary. 

Some  years  ago  we  had  gone  to  Baltimore  on 
our  wedding  journey,  and  stopped  at  the  Stafford 
Hotel  where  we  were  staying  now.  We  had  walked 
in  Mount  Vernon  Place  just  as  we  were  doing  in 
this  year  of  our  Lord,  and  we  had  found  the  ice 
cream  soda  second  to  no  other.  Think  of  all  that 
distinguishes  Baltimore:  the  Holy  Church,  the 
monuments,  the  beauties,  and  the  whiskey,  and  yet 
I  remember  it  most  affectionately  for  the  softest 
of  drinks.  I  asked  an  old  porter  who  had  been  at 
the  hotel  forever  if  he  remembered  a  large  envelope 
arriving  at  this  caravansary,  covered  with  red 
hearts  and  addressed  to  me,  and  of  its  being  pushed 
under  the  door  by  sniggering  bell  boys.  Of  course 
he  didn't  remember  it.  I  knew  he  wouldn't,  but  I 
thought  then  that  all  the  city  must  know  of  the 
missive  from  over-humorous  cousins.  It  surprised 
me  on  this  previous  visit  to  see  the  modest  length 
of  the  hotel  lobby.  After  the  red  hearts  arrived  I 
found  the  front  doors  evilly  withdrawing  from  me 
as  I  walked  and  walked  and  walked  to  reach  them. 
All  eyes  were  upon  me  I  was  sure.  They  were  smil- 
ing behind  their  hands  I  feared.  And  now  the 
porter  has  forgotten  the  cataclysm,  and  I — I  am 
boasting  of  it! 

"  Did  you  see  the  cathedral  this  time?  "  asked  the 
.-*-  357  -*- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

Illustrator  when  we  were  well  under  way  the  next 
day.  Then  we  both  laughed  for  we  know  now  that 
we  will  never  visit  the  cathedral  in  Baltimore,  and 
yet  I  could  go  on  writing  of  the  city's  beauty  for  a 
reason  no  more  tangible  to  you  than  the  excellence 
of  its  soda  water.  Possibly  it  is  drawn  from  the 
eternal  fountain  of  youth,  and  that  possession 
should  distinguish  any  habitation  of  man. 

But  hats  off  to  Maryland.  It  bowed  us  in  and 
bowed  us  out  without  a  jar.  Some  day  we  will  go 
over  all  of  its  highways  to  do  a  "  Maryland,  My 
Maryland  "  story.  The  state  exercises  a  beautiful 
intelligence  in  working  on  its  highways  continually. 
Gangs  of  men  such  as  we  see  in  Europe  are  ever 
patching  up  the  poor  places,  and,  after  the  Euro- 
pean fashion,  they  do  but  one  side  of  the  road  at  a 
time  so  that  no  detour  is  made.  At  least  that  was 
our  experience,  but  we  were  disposed  to  take  life 
kindly  on  that  splendid  run  to  New  York,  and  we 
may  have  confounded  our  own  condition  of  mind 
with  the  predisposition  of  the  world.  It  doesn't 
make  much  difference  how  shabbily  we  are  treated 
if  we  don't  know  it — "  Don't  have  sense  enough 
to  know  it,"  as  the  Illustrator  once  estimated  him- 
self after  an  unexpected  blow  at  his  scheme  of  life. 
But  I  still  think  he  was  ahead  of  the  one  who  de- 
livered the  blow. 

He  sat  up  so  happily  on  this  brilliant  May  morn- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

ing  that  Toby  found  me  dull  by  contrast  and  in- 
sinuated himself  by  every  wile  known  to  dog  into 
the  front  seat.  Then  the  two,  with  the  chauffeur, 
beamed  over  the  wind  shield,  dismissing  questions 
which  confused  them  like  three  very  simple  children 
— or  three  wise  men.  It  was  the  driver  who  found 
German  lettering  on  the  surface  of  the  houses  as  we 
left  Baltimore.  Men  of  Teutonic  features  were 
coming  in  from  the  country  byways  and  I  would 
very  much  have  enjoyed  a  run  off  the  highway  to 
call  upon  our  janitor's  father.  He  is  one  of  a  body 
of  Bohemian  farmers  who  were  invited  over  to  re- 
claim a  tract  of  worn-out  land  which  they  have 
made  to  blossom  like  the  rose,  or  at  least  like  the 
tobacco  plant.  A  living  derived  from  this  leaf  is 
as  precarious  as  gambling  at  Monte  Carlo,  but 
as  profitable  to  the  farmer  when  the  yield  is 
good  as  the  long-sought  system  for  breaking  the 
bank. 

I  showed  the  janitor  some  photographs  when  we 
got  back  and  he  was  so  good  as  to  recognise  grate- 
fully every  hilltop  and  every  cow  grazing  on  it. 
Considering  the  languid  interest  which  the  aver- 
age friend  shows  for  any  snapshot  not  taken  by 
himself,  or  without  himself  in  it,  I  recommend 
travellers  to  confine  their  photographic  display  to 
those  "  below  stairs."  Unless  you  have  a  picture  of 
yourself  covered  with  mud  while  your  car  lies  in  the 

H-  359  -e- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

ditch  they  would  rather  not  know  anything  about 
your  trip. 

But  to  go  hack  to  the  janitor  (which  is  not  mat- 
ter foreign  to  motoring  as  I  am  trying  to  "  ease  " 
you  toward  your  domicile  and  the  cares  which  await 
you)  he  told  me  of  his  first  dreadful  week  over 
here  when  he  started  as  a  waiter  in  an  obscure  res- 
taurant. He  described  how  he  strained  and  strained 
to  understand  our  language  so  that  the  patrons 
would  not  complain  and  the  proprietor  replace  him 
with  another  boy  of  greater  linguistic  attainments. 
He  cried  for  seven  nights  after  he  went  to  bed,  cried 
with  discouragement  and  fatigue  and  heimweh. 
But  at  the  end  of  the  week  he  began  to  grasp  little 
phrases  of  speech:  "  Coffeenrolls,"  and  "  eggsn- 
toastquick,"  and  at  the  end  of  a  year  he  spoke  our 
language.  I  looked  at  him  admiringly.  One  year ! 
And  we  Americans  putter  every  season  about  a 
foreign  country  without  a  past  or  a  future  tense  at 
our  command.  And  for  the  subjunctive!  Oh,  well! 
who  of  us  would  know  an  English  subjunctive  even 
if  we  met  it  in  broad  daylight  walking  up  the 
avenue? 

Before  the  janitor  had  finished  putting  up  the 
awnings  (I  am  getting  you  as  far  as  preparations 
for  the  Summer  now  so  that  you  will  soon  be  ac- 
customed to  the  prospects  of  the  same  bed  every 
night)  I  asked  him  why  his  people  came  over 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

here  if  they  were  all  so  homesick.  He  was  about 
to  hang  out  perilously  again  as  he  manipulated  the 
Summer  shelter,  and  I  thought  I  had  better  get 
what  I  could  from  him  before  it  was  too  late. 
'  Why  does  anybody  go  anywhere?  "  he  returned, 
leaning  out  over  the  window  sill  so  that  I  couldn't 
talk  back. 

But  why  do  we  go  anywhere?  What  peculiar 
quality  is  it  that  sends  gallants  and  beaux  far  from 
court  life  to  discover  strange  and  hostile  and  un- 
healthy lands?  Why  did  more  go  after  them  when 
the  toll  of  death  was  so  great  among  the  first  ad- 
venturers ?  Since  the  North  and  South  Poles  have 
been  discovered  with  such  a  tragic  penalty  what  is 
the  incentive  that  sends  other  men  in  to  freeze  their 
fingers  and  their  toes  and  sit  upon  ice  floes  until 
rescued?  And  why  do  I  put  the  question  marks 
into  this  paragraph  when  they  might  as  well  be 
periods?  For  I  know  that  the  very  same  driving 
qualities  which  send  you  and  me  out  upon  our  little 
motoring  expeditions  actuated  those  greater  ex- 
plorations. Vastly  different  one  would  say — the 
early  Puritans  with  their  English  spinning  wheels, 
the  modern  emigrant  with  his  pack  upon  his  back, 
the  motorist  with  his  bristling  maps,  and  the  house- 
wife moving  from  one  flat  to  another.  Yet  the 
spirit  is  identical. 

With  no  obligation  to  "  hunt  up  "  we  hunted 
-j-  361  -*- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

vigorously  for  the  birthplace  of  Edwin  Booth,  tak- 
ing photographs  of  Bel  Air  only  to  find  that  he 
had  lived  some  distance  on  at  Fountain  Green. 
The  proprietor  of  the  Kenmore  Inn  assured  us  that 
the  school  children  along  the  way  would  know,  and 
as  it  had  more  to  do  with  tradition  than  education 
they  did  even  stop  their  ball  game  by  the  roadside 
to  swing  wide  a  farm  gate.  We  drove  in  and  out 
with  no  one  to  molest  us  save  several  conventional 
calves  who  bawled  to  their  mothers  that  some  one 
had  come  to  take  a  picture  of  them — such  is  the  van- 
ity of  the  very  young.  The  birthplace  is  very  good 
and  the  estate  most  impressive,  for  the  average 
actor  boasts  no  such  pretentious  beginning.  But 
this  makes  little  difference.  It  is  fitting  that  Foun- 
tain Green  is  the  name  of  the  locality  which  shel- 
tered the  youth  who  gave  to  our  country  an  ever 
verdant  art. 

We  rushed  on  through  a  country  wisely  marked 
at  the  dangerous  turns  by  a  skull  and  cross  bones 
painted  on  high  white  fences,  and  our  speed,  con- 
trolled at  times  by  these  visions  of  a  future  state, 
brought  us  to  Havre  de  Grace  for  early  luncheon. 
We  stopped  there,  for  we  were  loath  to  quit  Mary- 
land, and  the  inn  on  the  river  was  so  soothing  to  the 
exterior  man  that  we  thought  the  interior  individual 
might  take  a  chance  at  a  bad  meal.  But  our  dinner 
was  both  decorative  to  the  eye  and  satisfying  to  that 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

side  of  us  which,  having  a  restricted  view  of  life, 
takes  small  interest  in  the  beauties  of  nature  unless 
the}7  are  well  cooked. 

There  were  fresh  green  peas  and  asparagus,  and 
each  expression  of  gratification  from  us  was  re- 
peated in  a  loud  voice  by  the  handmaiden  as  soon 
as  she  got  beyond  the  swinging  door  into  the 
kitchen.  '  They  like  the  sparrowgrass,"  she  an- 
nounced, "  but  he  don't  eat  no  veal."  The  other 
guests  grew  very  quiet  in  the  dining  room  as  the  re- 
port of  our  doings  continued.  '  They  keep  askin' 
about  their  dog,"  she  shouted.  "  Take  him  round  to 
the  back  door,  Katie,  and  feed  him  till  he  busts." 
And  at  the  end  of  the  meal:  "  He  ain't  got  enough 
money  an's  asked  her  for  some.  They  come  in  a 
machine  too." 

The  Illustrator  hastened  out  to  hunt  up  the 
chauffeur  who  had  taken  advantage  of  the  assur- 
ance across  the  street  that  here  were  sold  "  sand- 
witches."  The  landlady  came  in  when  I  was  alone 
apologising  to  me  for  everything  as  though  we  were 
at  an  old-fashioned  country  tea  party,  where,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  it  was  the  fashion  for  the  hostess 
to  deprecate  her  table.  I  recall  the  heavy  effort  to 
be  enthusiastic  and  to  quiet  her  pretended  alarm, 
and  how  the  wearisome  repetition  of  our  repletion 
took  away  our  appetite  before  we  were  actually  sat- 
isfied. We  don't  do  so  much  of  that  nowadays  and 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

one    finds    a    casual    hostess    very   much    of    an 
aperitif. 

The  landlady  said  with  a  weary  sigh  that  she  was 
housecleaning  (here  I  begin  working,  not "  easing  " 
you  up  to  your  apartment  door)  and  I  admitted 
that  I  had  wired  "  clean  if  not  cleaned  "  while  I 
was  far  away  in  Petersburg.  She  looked  at  me 
earnestly  with  her  lips  pursed  up.  "  Do  you  think 
she'll  do  it  as  well  as  you?  " 

I  replied  that  "  she  "  would  probably  do  it  bet- 
ter. And  I  don't  know  why  "  she  "  shouldn't  when 
it  is  her  specialty  and  not  mine.  Nor  do  I  see  why 
a  woman  is  less  housewifely  for  paying  others  who 
need  the  small  sum  to  do  what  she  can  ill  afford  to 
spend  time  upon.  I  can  write  stories  and  get  money 
for  them  (although  you'll  probably  doubt  this)  and 
I  won't  spend  hours  sewing  on  buttons  when  I 
could  make  enough  in  that  time  to  employ  a  mod- 
erate sized  Dorcas  Society  of  needy  needle-women. 

As  for  the  darning  bag  the  Illustrator  says  I 
never  get  it  out  unless  we  are  expecting  an  inter- 
viewer. But  I  defy  any  reporter  to  catch  me  so 
selfishly  at  work.  I'd  rather  do  without  satin  slip- 
pers which  wear  out  so  easily.  Yes,  and  I  do  do 
without  them.  The  next  time  you  see  me  wearing 
kid  ones  at  a  party  remember  that  a  sewing  woman 
has  a  day's  work  off  of  each  foot — which  is  confus- 
ing but  I  know  you'll  understand. 

-j-3644- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

Or  will  you?  Have  the  previous  chapters  full  of 
meandering  thoughts  left  you  opposed  to  the  theory 
that  I  should  keep  out  of  the  kitchen.  Do  you  want 
to  cry,  "  Try  darning  socks ! "  Believe  me  I  have 
tried.  I  have  tried  many  things  in  life  and  failed. 
After  that  what  is  there  for  us  to  do  but  tell  of  our 
many  failures,  and  if  a  reader  can  get  any  consola- 
tion out  of  them  perhaps  we  haven't  been  such  fear- 
ful failures  after  all. 

You  see  I  should  be  closing  this  chapter  now,  but 
I  write  on  hoping  that  I  may  improve  my  style — 
like  suddenly  learning  a  trick — so  that  you  may  say 
"  the  end  was  good  " — which  can  mean  two  things. 
A  last  chapter  is  terrible,  for  a  writer  wishes  to  take 
back  every  word  she  has  said  that  is  confusing  or 
incorrect  or  displeasing.  It  is  like  sending  for  a 
priest  at  the  close  of  a  wilful  life.  I  wish  I  didn't 
know  when  it  was  to  be  the  last  chapter  and  that  I 
could  wake  up  some  morning  to  find  that  the  manu- 
script, now  a  sturdy  and  complete  child,  had  walked 
itself  down  to  the  publishers.  But  see  how  I  make 
into  "  one-night-stands  "  a  run  that  was  swiftly  ac- 
complished. If  I  can  just  get  across  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  over  one  of  the  long  bridges  to  which  the 
river  is  addicted,  and  reach  the  Delaware  state  line 
I  am  sure  all  Southern  languor  will  leave  me,  and  I 
can  roll  you  by  the  power  of  words  quickly  to  the 
Quaker  City. 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

One  could  tell  Delaware  by  the  abrupt  leaving  of 
the  perfect  road,  yet  it  was  a  good  "  home  "  road — 
I  mean  by  that  as  "  home  cooking "  is  good, 
which  is  never  quite  what  we  pretend  it  to  be.  The 
buzzards  left  us  as  promptly  as  they  had  begun 
way  over  at  the  western  end  of  Maryland,  but  Co- 
lonial beauties  in  architecture  were  still  ours.  As 
engaging  a  church  as  we  saw  in  the  South  was  that 
of  St.  James's  near  Staunton,  Delaware.  It  is  so 
curiously  built  that  we  hung  about  the  churchyard 
for  a  long  time  hoping  some  one  would  come  along 
to  explain  its  unusual  design.  But  it  was  off  by  it- 
self in  the  country  with  no  service  for  five  days 
ahead,  and  that  would  mean  almost  another  book 
if  we  waited  for  the  history.  One  may  notice  that 
it  takes  little  time  to  relate  facts  but  I  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  lead  up  to  them  from  a  long  avoidance  of 
the  truth. 

Between  this  point  and  the  discovery  of  the  best 
Southern  inn  on  the  run  through  a  Northern  state 
lay  Wilmington,  a  town  of  lovely  old  houses  which 
I  never  saw  before,  although  I  can  tell  all  about 
the  hotels  and  the  theatres.  The  strolling  player 
of  today  does  very  little  strolling  beyond  cover- 
ing the  distance  between  his  workshop  and  his 
bed. 

But  such  are  the  benefits  of  motoring  that  we 
find  the  best  of  a  town  as  often  as  we  do  the  worst 

-e-366-*- 


THE  TOWER  OF  HOLDER  HALL,  TRIXCETOX 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

of  it,  and  as  a  rule  under  gentler  skies  than  does 
the  weary  mummer.  A  number  of  us  experienced 
Wilmington  during  a  hot  spell  one  September, 
however,  that  made  us  think  affectionately  of  wad- 
ing through  snow  drifts  to  catch  early  morning 
trains.  From  my  excellent  room  I  could  look  out 
upon  the  Delaware  River,  and  I  beg  you  to  waste 
no  further  pity  on  "  Washington  Crossing  the 
Delaware  "  when  you  are  confronted  by  that  large 
steel  engraving.  I  did  not  believe  during  my  torrid 
stay  in  Wilmington  that  the  Delaware  could  ever 
freeze  over,  but  if  it  did  George  Washington  was 
enjoying  it. 

The  river  kept  to  our  right  (or  we  kept  to  its 
left  as  the  river  would  say  if  it  were  writing  this 
book)  all  the  way  to  Philadelphia  showing  by  its 
industries  in  ships,  munitions,  and  other  methods 
of  destruction  that  it  was  very  much  in  the  mode. 
Before  we  reached  Chester  we  found  as  charming 
an  ornament  as  man  could  make  and  sit  upon  a 
little  hill  to  view  the  stream.  It  is  an  inn  known 
as  "  Naamans  "  after  an  Indian  chief  of  that  dis- 
trict. It  is  low  with  thick  protecting  pillars  and 
wide  inviting  wings.  At  one  end  is  a  block  house 
which  the  Swedes  built  for  protection  against  the 
Indians  in  1688.  But  the  poor  Norsemen  needed 
more  than  block  houses  to  withstand  the  violence  of 
Governor  Peter  Stuyvesant.  He  drove  them  out 

-z-367-J- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

with  small  cannon  balls — one  was  found  absurdly 
hiding  in  the  crotch  of  an  old  tree  and  now  rests 
upon  the  hall  mantelshelf.  The  block  house  is  used 
for  the  braiding  of  the  most  lovely  rugs  imaginable, 
and  if  you  see  me  wearing  to  the  opera  this  Winter 
a  circular  effect  in  dull  blues  I  will  pretend  that  it 
is  a  coat  but  it  is  really  one  of  the  rugs  purchased 
at  Naamans. 

The  hostess  and  I  were  enthusiastically  discuss- 
ing the  merits  of  the  rare  mahogany  in  the  bedrooms 

when  W said  that  it  was  too  dark  to  make  a 

sketch  and  so — "  Ahem!  "  That  is  the  male  way 
of  saying  "  As  I  have  nothing  to  do  here  remaining 
is  not  important."  Once  I  fed  a  little  monkey  and 
when  the  hand-organ  man  pulled  him  away  he  went 
hopping  backwards  with  his  arms  stretched  out  ap- 
pealingly  to  me.  And  in  that  manner  I  hopped 
away  from  Naamans,  but  some  day  a  letter  will 
come  to  Claymont,  Delaware,  which  is  the  address 
of  the  inn,  bidding  them  prepare  the  block  house 
and  I  shall  inhabit  it  for  a  while,  shooting  any  one 
who  asks  me  "  What's  for  dinner? "  or  "  Where  is 
my  left  patent  leather  pump  ? " 

It  was  a  pleasant  sign  that  on  the  last  run  of  both 
our  trips  in  America  we  have  come  across  particu- 
larly interesting  taverns.  They  are  like  little  ten- 
drils which  hold  you  to  your  love  of  the  road,  prom- 
ising comfort  with  charm  if  you  will  come  back 

-J-368-H- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

and  not  forget  what  the  broad  highway  has  to 
offer. 

Upon  the  outskirts  of  Philadelphia  we  plunged 
into  domesticity  so  heavily  that  it  looked  as  though 
no  one  on  the  globe  was  living  in  hotels  or  flats  or 
boarding  houses.  Thousands  of  neat  little  homes 
attended  us  on  either  side  the  streets,  millions  of 
front  steps  led  to  rocking  chairs  on  porches  equally 
numerous.  I  immediately  became  a  housekeeper 
and  hinted  to  the  Illustrator  of  a  long  night  run  to 
New  York.  But  this  was  not  encouraged  and  the 
best  that  I  could  do  was  to  arrange  mentally  the 
furniture  in  these  little  houses:  '  The  couch  must 
be  there — the  lamp  by  the  window — two  bookcases 

on  either  side  of  the  chimney  and "  W 

turned  to  look  at  me  quizzically.  '  You've  stopped 
looking  about,"  he  said.  It  was  true.  I  had 
stopped  regarding  the  road  in  the  arranging  of 
furniture.  I  was  nearly  "  home." 

We  did  none  of  the  things  in  Philadelphia  that 
I  hope  you  will  accomplish.  In  preference  to  a 
lecture  on  foreign  travel  we  went  to  the  theatre — 
a  bus  man's  holiday — to  see  an  indifferently  acted 
play.  At  supper  afterwards  one  of  the  actresses 
stopped  at  the  table  which  we  were  sharing  with 
friends.  She  admitted  that  they  were  tired  of  the 
"  road."  I  listened  to  this  complacently  for  I  knew 
that  they  would  rest  for  a  while,  then  a  longing  to 

-+369-J- 


get  back  again  would  come  twitching  at  their 
hearts.  They  too  are  of  that  band  of  explorers  who 
know  the  wanderlust. 

What  haste  W felt  about  reaching  New 

York  he  did  not  crystallise  into  speech,  but  he  was 
fairly  acrid  for  an  amiable  man  when  I  was  very 
late  ordering  down  the  bags.  I  had  been  running 
up  and  down  the  most  delightful  feature  of  Phila- 
delphia: its  little  back  streets,  chasing  Mr.  Toby. 
He  had  given  up  all  thought  of  ever  staying  more 
than  a  night  in  one  place  and  had  accommodated 
himself  to  it,  but  an  extra  morning's  scrub  was  a 
little  hifalutin,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
ran  away,  lured  on  by  a  few  dogs  urging  him  to 
join  the  union  against  baths.  I  would  have  pur- 
sued him  to  the  world's  end,  and  may  the  creator 
of  all  animals  soften  the  heart  of  the  passerby  who 
meets  the  lost  dog  wearing  a  muzzle.  Catch  him 
if  only  to  send  for  the  wagon  which  carries  his  kind 
to  a  more  peaceful  finish  than  will  be  our  fortune. 
But  don't  let  him  starve  behind  that  mouse  trap. 

The  parkway  which  Philadelphia  has  given  the 
traveller  of  the  New  York  road  is  the  most  majestic 
of  my  experience.  Some  day  we  are  going  to  make 
the  run  from  New  York  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
being  conducted  through  lovely  paved  processes  up 
to  the  heart  of  Philadelphia.  It  is  quite  symbolic, 
however,  that  we  should  have  passed,  upon  entering 

-i-370-f- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

the  city,  the  little  houses  whose  prosperity  made  pos- 
sible the  building  of  these  boulevards.  Motor  griev- 
ances are  not  enduring  humps.  They  are  ironed 
out  by  quiet  running,  and  before  we  had  reached 
New  Jersey  Toby's  anxious  eyes  grew  peaceful. 
"  They're  all  right,  everything's  all  right,"  said  he, 
which  I  have  thought  so  often  that  he  must  have 
borrowed  it  from  me. 

We  turned  off  the  road  through  the  wilfulness 
of  the  motor  before  we  reached  Princeton  which 
was  done,  I  hope,  to  atone  for  other  less  welcome 
misleadings.  It  took  us  along  an  old  canal  with 
the  drawbridge  open  while  a  long  string  of  animals 
pulled  so  heavy  a  cargo  that  I  could  not  believe  it 
was  only  chalk.  I  was  occupied  until  we  discovered 
the  far  towers  of  Princeton  figuring  what  they 
could  do  with  all  that  chalk.  The  public  need  it 
— as  far  as  I  know — only  for  school  children,  un- 
becoming face  powder,  and  grease  spots.  The  pic- 
turesque reward  was  worth  the  wrong  turn  and  the 
unusual  approach  to  Princeton  was  as  English  as 
a  landscape  could  be  and  remain  New  Jersey.  A 
line  of  grey  towers  commanded  green  treetops,  and 
Mr.  Carnegie's  lake  was  as  good  as  the  Thames  any 
day. 

We  lunched  at  the  Princeton  Inn,  a  far  cry  from 
the  noon  meal  of  the  day  before,  or  of  our  outdoor 
spread  in  the  swamps,  of  the  farmhouse  in  the  Vir- 

-j-  371  -*- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

ginia  mountains,  or  Friddle's  restaurant  in  the  val- 
ley of  the  Shenandoah.  Yet  this  dignified  eating 
place  was  no  mark  of  progression  beyond  the 
further  enriching  of  our  experiences.  Let  it  be  a 
healing  thought  to  such  of  us  as  find  the  creature 
comforts  of  life  decreasing  with  the  advance  of 
years  that,  in  the  steady  march  of  time,  never  for 
one  instant  is  our  horizon  narrowing. 

I  watched  some  of  the  older  of  the  University 
men  at  table — seniors,  a  little  tinged  with  the  seri- 
ousness of  life.  They  had  shot  above  the  limit  of 
the  school  boy's  mental  stature.  They  were  brave 
enough  and  sure  enough  to  be  simple.  But,  even 
so,  I  thought  of  the  long  road  ahead  of  them  and 
their  discoveries  along  the  way.  A  young  man 
wrote  me  last  year  and  spoke  of  his  mental  state 
a  few  months  previous.  "  I  was  in  transit  then," 
he  wrote,  "  now  my  principles  and  my  philosophy 
are  established.  I  see  big  and  fine  things  ahead. 
It's  a  great  relief.  I  shall  have  no  more  mental 
roving." 

Ah,  poor  young  man!  Even  now  he  may  have 
found  that  he  must  take  out  his  map  of  life  and  alter 
his  pleasing  itinerary.  And  he  will  travel  far  on  his 
mental  rovings  nor  cease  until  the  map  has  blown 
from  his  withered  hands  by  a  wind  too  rude.  We 
are  in  transit  from  the  moment  we  come  crying  into 
the  world  until  such  time  as  we  quietly  close  our 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

eyes  upon  it.  And  that  is  another  reason  we  feel 
the  highroad  to  be  as  much  our  home  when  we  are 
restless  as  are  the  enfolding  walls  when  tranquillity 
is  ours. 

We  crossed  to  Staten  Island  from  Perth  Amboy 
and  from  there  on  the  Metropolitan  aura  made  it- 
self felt  by  a  sort  of  nimbus  of  New  York  trucks 
and  town  cars  all  around  us.  But  the  wrappings  of 
the  country  did  not  leave  my  spirit  as  it  has  often 
done  before.  I  wondered  if  I  had  been  inocu- 
lated with  the  brown  earth,  or  had  my  sympathies 
made  me  one  with  it — we  were  near  to  the  ground 
in  the  Old  Dominion.  And  then  in  the  haziest  fash- 
ion, even  as  we  were  making  for  the  ferry  amidst 
the  great  drays,  there  came  to  me  the  memory  of 
the  Greek  story  of  the  deluge.  Faintly  I  remem- 
bered Deucalion  and  his  wife,  Pyrrha  (who  were 
the  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Noah  of  mythology)  praying  be- 
fort  the  altar  for  a  way  of  quickly  renewing  the 
race.  The  oracle  spoke  and  bade  them  cast  behind 
them  the  bones  of  their  mother.  This  was  sacrilege 
to  a  Greek,  but  Deucalion  found  an  interpretation 
for  the  command.  It  was  not  the  human  mother — 
which  would  be  desecration — but  the  earth  which, 
as  Deucalion  said,  "  is  the  great  parent  of  all.  The 
stones  are  her  bones;  these  we  may  cast  behind  us." 
So  they  picked  up  the  rocks  along  the  way  and  as 
they  walked  they  cast  them  over  their  shoulders. 

-J-373-e- 


THIS  IS  THE  END 

"  The  stones  began  to  grow  soft,  and  assume  shape. 
By  degrees  they  put  on  a  rude  resemblance  to  the 
human  form,  like  a  block  half  finished  in  the  hands 
of  the  sculptor.  The  moisture  that  was  about  them 
became  flesh;  the  stony  part  bone;  the  veins  re- 
mained veins,  only  changing  their  use.  Those 
thrown  by  the  hand  of  the  man  became  men,  and 
those  by  the  woman  became  women." 

So  you  see  it  would  be  very  stupid  in  us  not  to 
love  the  road,  for  if  you  are  a  good  Greek  you  will 
believe  that  you  are  not  only  on  it  but  of  it.  And 
that  is  the  last  of  the  metaphor  for  this  is  the  end 
of  the  book. 

When  we  reached  our  apartment  Toby  was 
amazed  over  our  complete  dismounting  of  the  bag- 
gage. "  Is  this  our  home? "  he  asked. 

"  Until  the  road  calls  again,"  we  answered. 


374 


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